


Getting Better

by nox_candida



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bullying, Friendship, Gen, Harm to Children, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, Pre-Slash, Single Parents, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 75,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tristram Holmes dreads attending his new primary school, fearing he'll be teased and bullied as usual. Only, nothing goes exactly as he thinks it will when he finds himself with a seemingly unlikely friend in Emily Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=6799783#t6799783) on the [sherlockbbc_fic](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/) kinkmeme. This is essentially Version 2.0. It's been edited by me, but hasn't been betad or Britpicked.

It’s his first day at his new school. He already hates it and he hasn’t even got there yet. He hated his old school, too, and wasn’t sorry to not have to go back. But he knows that it’s going to be just the same: he’ll show up, try and make friends, and they’ll just laugh at him and call him a freak.

He’d tried to explain to his father about this last year, but his father had merely snorted and insisted that school bullies were dull and loathsome. That they weren’t worth his time. And they weren’t, he knew his father was right—his father was _always_ right—but it didn’t change the fact that he hated being called a freak. His father insisted that there was nothing worse than being normal, but he begged to differ. He desperately wanted to fit in, to be able to discuss sports—or even play them—with the others, or to be able to talk about the newest computer game. But his father said that all of those things were rubbish and instead he was allowed to conduct chemical experiments. And that was fine—he did truly enjoy spending time with his father and the experiments were interesting—but he knew it wasn’t something he could discuss with his classmates. And, well, sometimes he just wanted to have friends, like everyone else.

And it wasn’t that he hadn’t tried to fit in, because he had. He’d tried as hard as he could. It just seemed that no matter what he did, he stood out. He was too tall—standing head and shoulders above the other children—and his knees were knobby and his elbows were sharp. His hair wouldn’t stay flat against his head—it was, instead, a tangled mess of dark curls that boys and girls alike loved to pull, to his eternal consternation. He would get nervous and quiet and whenever he tried to play sports, he inevitably tripped or got it wrong somehow and his team would groan in irritation and the other team would laugh.

And then there was his name. All of the other kids had nice, normal names like Jack, or Thomas, or William. Even the kids with unusual names—like Rohan or Adil or Fareed—had ones that were at least interesting. He, however, had been stuck with—in his considered opinion—the most ridiculous name in existence.

Yes, Tristram Harbinger Holmes, aged eight, was not looking forward to attending his new primary school. Not at all.

*

The story of how he came to be called Tristram Harbinger Holmes was once—and only once—told to him by his Uncle Mycroft. He wasn’t sure how his uncle came to know the particulars of the story, since his father loathed his uncle and his mother disappeared off to Europe right after he’d been born—and she’d never much cared for his uncle, either, apparently—but Tristram hadn’t voiced his questions at the time. When he’d thought it through and decided to ask later, his uncle had been very busy with some elections in Korea. Tristram supposed that was his way of avoiding having to answer.

According to his uncle, his parents had been young and foolish and hadn’t intended on having him at all. And because they’d been young and foolish, they’d made a mistake and his mother had become pregnant with him.

When his mother told his father that she was going to have a baby, his father had not taken the news well. They’d had a fight. His mother had called his father a hideously evil man and a barbarian. His father had accused his mother of getting pregnant to entrap him, and had claimed that the unborn child was a harbinger of normality and mediocrity—in short, everything he despised in the world.

The story went that they eventually made up, but the relationship deteriorated to the point that, when Tristram was born, they were only speaking via text message. In the days leading up to his birth, his father had run off on a case, infuriating his mother. In retaliation, she’d been prepared to name him Drust after some barbarian kings, but relented at the last minute to name him Tristram. She’d been vindictive enough to add Harbinger as a middle name, and had promptly left the hospital after the birth. Without him.

Retelling the story to his teacher the previous year had been a mistake, though. She’d asked the class to tell some story about their name—what it meant, why they were given that name, and how they liked it, or if they preferred to be called by a nickname. Tristram had duly written the story down—it had never particularly bothered him, though he did add that he wished his mother had called him Drust instead—and had been called in to have a meeting with his teacher during break. She’d asked after his home life and had apparently been alarmed by his answers. She’d called his father to come have a meeting after school, which had been her first mistake. He’d been on a case at the time and, more to the point, he couldn’t see why it was necessary. Tristram agreed, but he’d cringed when his father had started aggressively calling her abilities as a teacher into question.

The argument had started properly then and it wasn’t too long before the whole thing degenerated into cold pronouncements from his father about his teacher’s infidelity to her husband and his teacher’s angry, tearful yelling. Fortunately, Uncle Mycroft had swooped in at this point to smooth things over, but Tristram could tell his father was still irritated on the way home and he was worried his teacher would still be angry the next day. All he’d wanted was to get home so that he could finish his homework.

This was partly why he was at a new school and didn’t really mind. He only hoped that no one would ask him about his name, his father, his mother, or his uncle. He didn’t like to lie.

*

It’s Tristram’s first day at his new primary school and he’s already got dressed, brushed his teeth, and gone into the kitchen to make toast and tea. When he arrives downstairs, his father is lounging on the sofa, deep in thought. He’s in a suit, though, which gives Tristram some hope that his father will go to school with him. It’d be a lost cause if he were only in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

Tristram doesn’t bother to say anything, lest he disturb his father, and moves silently into the kitchen for breakfast. He manoeuvres around his father’s latest experiment and retrieves the bread from the refrigerator and the tea from the cupboard over the cooker. He starts the tea and toasts his bread.

He hasn’t attempted to broach the subject of his new school fears with his father recently, mostly because his father told him—only once, but it was very emphatic—that he hates repetition.

So, as he often does, he keeps his mouth shut and eats his breakfast. Tristram is pleased to note, though, that his father deigns to eat the crust and have a few sips of tea.

And, as father and son gather their coats and Tristram hefts his book bag onto his shoulder, he thinks maybe the first day won’t be as bad as he’s been dreading because his father takes his hand as they walk to school.

*

Of course, though, he has no such luck; it’s every bit as bad as he’s feared.

It’s mid-morning break and already a gang of four boys has dragged him away from any adult supervision and pushed him onto the ground, scattering his books, papers, and pencils everywhere. They don’t even give him a chance to pick them up before they’re pushing him again. And, like a newborn foal, he stumbles over his awkwardly too long legs and falls flat onto his face on the pavement.

Then, worse than the rest of it, they start to laugh and call him names.

“Freak,” calls the leader of the gang—a good looking boy named Sebastian who has wavy brown hair and a smug twist to his lips that Tristram feels is very telling. Clearly, this boy has always had a silver spoon in his mouth. Everything about the confident way his shoulders are set and the way he moves screams that this kid has an overdeveloped sense of entitlement.

Tristram already knows what he’s done wrong. First lesson of the day was grammar and, as English grammar was one of the first things his father taught him, it was easy enough. So he thought—in a bid to win friends—he would help the others in the class. Unfortunately, instead of winning him friends, it’s won him enemies. No one likes it when the new kid is smarter than them and then rubs it in their face.

Really, it should have been obvious, but he’d only been trying to _help_.

One of Sebastian’s friends—Andrew—spits on him and says mockingly, “Look at us, teacher’s pet.”

The other boys laugh and another, Trevor, cuffs him on the back of the head and sneers. “Thinks he knows everything. You don’t know nothing at all, Freak.”

Tristram clenches his hands and it’s on the tip of his tongue to correct the double negative when he misses his chance.

“Oi! What are you lot doing?”

Before he can do much more than register the fact that the strident voice is female, a short and stocky girl with dark blonde hair has planted herself between Sebastian and Tristram. Tristram can’t see her face, but he can tell her arms are crossed.

“Nothing, just talking to the new kid,” Sebastian says smoothly, smiling winningly at her.

Tristram is staring at the back of her head, but she doesn’t bother to turn around. Instead, she says, “Mrs Norris is looking for you.”

An uncertain expression crosses Sebastian’s face, but he doesn’t contradict her. Instead, he and his little gang wander off, but not before shooting Tristram dirty looks. He feels his face flush in shame and anger. He’s mostly angry at himself for having made so many mistakes so early in the day, but when the girl turns around and looks at him thoughtfully, he makes yet another. He lashes out.

“What’d you do that for?” he snaps, hauling himself to his feet. Even though Tristram can tell she’s older than him, he’s still head and shoulders taller than her. Where he’s all bones and gangly limbs, she’s short and compact, sturdy looking. He barely takes any of this in before he sighs in frustration and attempts to pick up all of his things up and place them back in his bag with the minimum amount of fuss.

“Helping you,” she answers shortly, sounding offended.

“I didn’t need any help!” he snarls, his face burning and his hands shaking.

She scoffs and ignores his bad behaviour, leaning over to help him pick up the last few books. “So you asked that bunch of idiots to beat you up, call you names, and spit on you? That your idea of fun, then?”

Tristram sighs and the anger seeps out of his body. “No,” he says sullenly after a moment. Still, there’s his pride to consider. It might have been bruised, but he did still have it and he can only imagine what the other boys will say when they find out a _girl_ came to his rescue. “I didn’t need help, though,” he pouts.

He glances up just in time to see her roll her eyes and hand him his books. “Right.” They stare at each other for a moment and Tristram thinks he sees something warm and friendly in her eyes. He’s not sure because he’s never seen anyone look at him in quite that way before. Then, she smiles and sticks out her hand. “My name’s Emily Watson.”

He hesitates, his sense of polite manners—drilled into him by his uncle—at war with his still stinging pride.

“I don’t have cooties,” she says after a moment, still smiling at him. He scowls at her to convey that he knows that already—his father told him last year that there absolutely were no such things as cooties after he overheard some of the boys discussing them—but hesitates again and then reaches out to shake her hand. “Tristram Holmes.”

She shakes his hand, her face solemn, but Tristram thinks he still sees that warm thing in her eyes. “That’s a long name.”

“I hate it,” he blurts out, and the explanation _why_ —even when he knows it shouldn’t—is crowding inside of his throat and mouth to get out, but he stops the words just in time.

Emily Watson blinks, then smiles. “Well, I’ll just call you Tris instead.”

“But that’s—”

He’s interrupted by the bell calling the students back into their classrooms and Emily takes off running, throwing over her shoulder, “See you!”

“…not my name,” Tristram finishes quietly, frowning. He stands there, clutching his bag to his chest, feeling odd. He’s not at all sure what just happened. And he’s even less certain about what he’s supposed to do now.

*

Later, when school is out, Tristram is waiting near the entrance for someone to come get him. He’s not sure if it’ll be his uncle or his father. While he waits, he’s practicing his observational skills because his father likes to hear about his day and he has no patience for shoddy work and vague suppositions.

That’s when he spots Emily Watson chatting excitedly at a short, stocky man whom Tristram assumes must be her father. They have the same colour hair and build, though the man carries a crutch and is limping—all the more obvious because of how Emily’s bouncing around him, arms and hands gesturing enthusiastically.

He does his best to take in the scene around him, but his eyes are drawn back to Emily and her father when she calls out, “Tris!”

At first, he thinks she’s referring to someone else because his name isn’t Tris. It’s Tristram and he’s never had a nickname before.

But then she bounds over to him, stopping just before she knocks him over. “Tris,” she says, breathlessly, “told you I’d see you again.”

Tristram looks at her nervously and his eyes flicker over to the man waiting some way off. Then he looks back at Emily. “Erm, yes?”

She beams. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and reaches up to ruffle his hair before bouncing back over to her father.

Tristram is sure he’s turned red, though he doesn’t know why. He’s embarrassed and not a little pleased, but having another kid be nice to him and go out of their way to talk to him is strange. He’s not sure what to do, but he’s certain he’s blushing even harder when he catches a glimpse of Emily’s father’s face, a small smile resting on the man’s lips.

The only thing Tristram is able to think is that he can see where Emily gets her smile from.

By the time he’s gathered his wits about him, Emily and her father have walked round the corner and are out of sight.

Tristram sighs and loses interest in the world around him, which is why he doesn’t immediately see the dark car pulling up to him, unaware of it until he sees his uncle’s personal assistant step out and hold the door for him. Tristram blinks and the world rushes back into focus. With a small sigh, he climbs in.

He’s not at all sure what he’s going to tell his father about such a strange, strange day.


	2. Chapter Two

Tristram is utterly relieved that, when the car drops him off at home, his father is nowhere to be seen. Tristram knows from experience that it’s better this way. The last time he’d arrived home with scratches and scrapes on his face, not only had his father given him a stern look, he’d also deduced the entire incident in excruciating detail before Tristram had even opened his mouth. Following that entirely unpleasant conversation, his father had accompanied him to school the next day and coldly told the entire staff off in loud tones. It had been mortifying. The entire school had heard it and the incident had branded him a freak not only with the other students, but also with the staff. This was yet another reason he didn’t miss his old school.

And that situation was nothing at all to how he feels coming home from school this time. If his father had been there, taken one look at him and explained in great detail just how this time is different…Tristram doesn’t think he can handle that. Even _he_ doesn’t know how to put into words what’s happened, how this time is different somehow. And then there’s that girl, Emily….

More than anything, he doesn’t want his father telling him what it all means. Just this once, he wants to work it out on his own.

So he quickly climbs the front stairs of 221B Baker Street, briefly greets Mrs Hudson, and runs to his room, shutting the door behind him.

Homework provides a pleasant distraction, but isn’t particularly challenging, nor does it take very long. After he’s finished—and has read ahead, just in case—he looks around his room. He has an experiment-in-progress in one corner that his father recommended he do, one dealing with the acidity and chemical composition of different soil samples from around London. It doesn’t appeal at the moment, though, so he sits very still on his bed and listens. The entire flat is silent—apart from the movements of Mrs Hudson in the flat below—so he climbs off his bed and wanders over to his bookcase. Amidst the books his father has given him over the years—most having to do with chemistry, although there is the odd biology and geology book mixed in—is a large, leather bound book of fairy tales his uncle gave him for Christmas two years ago.

His father—upon Tristram opening the gift—had sneered at it and probably would have binned it had it not been an early edition of New Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Andersen and, thus, exceedingly expensive. Tristram had read all of the stories, but right now he is more interested in the secret compartment the book contains, large enough for a key. Tristram retrieves the key, carefully sets the volume back in its place and then moves over to the foot of his bed, where he keeps a large chest. Within the chest is a smaller chest hidden amongst old experiments and broken toys.

Once he opens this smaller chest, he carefully removes one of the books. He’d nicked the book from his last school’s library on the last day of classes and he’s not yet had the chance to read it, though he’s been wanting to ever since he’d had to choose a book to give a speech on. He’d wanted to do it on this book— _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ —but his father had once said that such fantastical nonsense was a complete waste of time. So Tristram had dutifully done _On the Origin of Species_ by Charles Darwin, even though he’d protested that he was supposed to use a fictional story.

His father hadn’t listened and he’d had to have another meeting with the teacher. That one hadn’t gone well, either, especially as he’d spent the class period listening longingly to the other children talk of witches and wizards and magic. It was all he could think about.

But now, he has hours to sit and enjoy the book and he is very much looking forward to it. He opens the book carefully and begins to read.

*

Five hours later, Tristram sets the book down, a large smile on his face and his heart beating fiercely in his chest. He can now understand why all the other children talk about these books so much. The first one is _fantastic_. He wants to start on the next one right away, but he glances over at the clock and is surprised to discover that it’s past dinner time. No doubt Mrs Hudson will be coming up to check on him within the next fifteen minutes, so he carefully replaces the book in the chest, locks it, and stores the key back in the book of fairy tales.

Then he wanders downstairs and rummages through the freezer, ignoring the body parts that are part of his father’s latest experiment on freezer burn. He makes himself some dinner, then removes the plates to the sink and does the washing up since if he doesn’t do it, no one will—though sometimes he is able to convince Mrs Hudson to, even if she always reminds him that she’s not the housekeeper.

They don’t own a television, so he decides to go back up to his room—after poking his head downstairs to assure Mrs Hudson of his continued existence—and work on his soil experiment. His father will probably want him to discuss the results tomorrow over breakfast.

But as he’s noting pH levels and chemical composition in his microscope, his mind is wandering to the book he’s just read and, oddly, to Emily Watson. He finds himself wondering what house she’d be in. Almost before he’s finished thinking it, though, he places her in Gryffindor. He thinks that, perhaps, she’s just like Harry. He was fiercely brave and loyal to his friends and not afraid to fight for them; it’s easy to picture Emily defending her friends. He can’t help but think she’s already defended him and they’re not even friends. The thought makes him blush and he fumbles the slide he has in his hand, watching forlornly as it shatters on the ground.

Tristram sighs and decides that maybe it’s time for bed. He’s always clumsy if he’s not concentrating and right now his mind keeps wandering. No doubt his father, who can focus like no one else, would be disappointed. He cringes at the thought of explaining that he’s just invalidated the experiment, but he pushes that thought aside and cleans up the mess he’s made.

He decides he’d better go to bed before his father comes home, so he gets into his pyjamas, brushes his teeth and climbs into bed. His last thought before he goes to sleep is to wonder if tomorrow will be the same as today was, or if life as he knows it will return to normal.

He finds himself hoping that it won’t and he tells himself that it’s because—as his father says—normal is boring.

*

Usually, Tristram likes it when his father walks to school with him. The next day, however, he’s glad that his father merely pats his shoulder and shoos him out of the door.

He thinks most parents might be horrified or disconcerted that his father lets him walk to school by himself, but Tristram’s never been too fussed about it because he knows that his uncle keeps an eye on him via CCTV. In fact, he usually waves to a camera while he walks. Today, however, is not one of the days that he does. His stomach is upset this morning—full of twisting, writhing snakes—and it gets worse the closer he gets to school.

His grip on his bag tightens until his knuckles turn white and he walks slower, taking as long as he can until he’s almost late. He’s just hurrying into the school, his head ducked down and eyes on the ground when he runs into a solid object and stumbles backward. He valiantly tries to regain his balance but he’s hopelessly clumsy at the best of times and it’s always worse when he’s nervous. He lands hard on his behind and—for the second time in as many days—his books and papers are spread out all around him on the ground.

“Oh dear,” he hears a man’s voice say—nowhere near as deep as his own father’s, but definitely not belonging to a student. Tristram’s eyes travel upwards and he sees that he’s just run headlong into Emily’s father. The man is standing and looking down at him kindly and—Tristram worries with a rush of embarrassment—perhaps with pity? Tristram scrambles to his feet and, in his haste, trips over one of his own books, his cheeks burning. “Are you all right?” Emily’s father asks and leans over painfully to help him pick his things up.

Tristram blushes more and mumbles that he’s fine. He hurriedly stuffs his books and papers into his bag and then snatches the ones that Emily’s father offers to him. Tristram’s eyes roam all over the room, looking everywhere but at Emily’s father because he’s afraid to see the look on the man’s face. He knows, however, that he should apologise and thank him for his help. The words get stuck in his throat, though, and he stands awkwardly, torn between running to class and standing around and attempting to be polite.

“You should probably go,” Emily’s father says quietly, his voice reminding Tristram of the warmth he saw in Emily’s eyes. “You don’t want to be late.”

Tristram glances up at the man against his will and is relieved to see that he isn’t being mocked. Instead, the man smiles kindly at him and Tristram bites his lip nervously, fidgeting in the way he knows his father disapproves of but that he can’t help—especially in moments like this. He nods after a pause and whispers a quick “thank you,” before running for his classroom. As far as mornings go, this one is not off to a great start.

*

Most days, Tristram spends his lunch time in the library. This suits him just fine because he’s found that eating in front of the bullies draws them to him like flies to rotting meat and he doesn’t particularly enjoy being beat up.

Today, he makes his way quickly to the library because he saw Sebastian eyeing him closely from across the classroom. He wastes no time learning the layout and where all the interesting books he wants to read are located.

He’s already tracked down where _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ is, and is just easing it from the shelf when someone taps his shoulder. Tristram nearly jumps out of his skin in fright and the book in his hand goes flying. He nearly hits whoever tapped his shoulder with his flailing limbs when he whips around. It’s only through sheer luck that he doesn’t yell.

Emily is standing there, her arm clutched to her chest and a look of surprise on her face. Abruptly, she starts giggling quietly. “It’s only me,” she whispers.

He scowls at her, trying to mask how confused he is because no one except his father and his uncle has ever successfully snuck up on him. “Obviously,” he snaps, rubbing his hand absent-mindedly over his racing heart.

Emily frowns at him and moves around him. She picks up his book and looks at the title, then smiles as she hands it back. “Are you just starting this one?”

He takes it from her, his expression still dour. “Yes. I read the first one yesterday.”

“Did you like it?”

Tristram pauses, his heart racing again, but for a completely different reason. Maybe he can actually _talk_ about it with someone. “Yes,” he says finally.

Emily smiles brilliantly at him and Tristram can’t help himself. He absolutely basks in the glow of someone being genuinely friendly to him, even if a corner of his mind still worries that he’s dreaming or that Emily’s just pretending to be nice to him. “My dad’s been reading them to me,” she confides quietly, still smiling. “We’ve just finished the third one, but he says we have to stop there because it gets a bit scary after that.” This last is said with a roll of the eyes, as if she can’t believe there’s anything to be frightened of in a book.

“He…reads them to you?” The idea of his father reading him a bedtime story isn’t alien in and of itself—his father used to read to him all the time, especially before he’d learned to read himself—but when his father read to him, it was always a nonfiction book. Sometimes it was about chemistry, sometimes biology, but never fiction. Trying to imagine his father reading a children’s fantasy story to him is as strange as the sky being green or the grass being red.

Emily nods emphatically, her hands fluttering excitedly in front of her. “Yeah, it’s brilliant. He does all the voices, too.”

Tristram tries to picture his father doing voices and fails. He’s suddenly deeply envious of Emily and he doesn’t know why, exactly. “Oh,” is all he manages to say, and he clutches the book tighter to him, his fingers running nervously along the edges of the book. He feels like he should say more, but he doesn’t know what, exactly, is the right thing. His tongue is tied in knots in his mouth and his throat is dry. The snakes in his belly are starting to writhe again.

“Did you already eat?” she asks him suddenly. He’s used to non sequiturs, though, so he merely shakes his head. Emily wrinkles her nose. “Why not?”

He’s not entirely sure how to explain that sometimes he skips lunch because it’s easier than being on constant alert, so he shrugs. His grip on the book tightens.

“Well, come on, then,” she says, grabbing him by the wrist and leading him over to the librarian. “Check out your book. I’m starving.”

He’s so stunned—and secretly pleased—that he doesn’t even put up a fight at being manhandled.

*

Sitting next to someone at lunch is a novel experience. Sitting next to someone who insisted that he eat with them is unprecedented. In fact, it is so outside of the realm of what he’s accustomed to that he half expects to wake up and find himself in his bedroom. He even pinches himself for good measure and is surprised and relieved to find that it hurts and changes nothing.

They haven’t actually said a word to one another since leaving the library and, while Tristram is used to sitting in silence at home, he has a vague idea that he’s doing something wrong. But he can’t seem to think of anything to say and he finds the silence comforting, especially because there is nothing in Emily’s posture or behaviour that says she finds the situation awkward in the least.

He keeps sneaking glances over at her, though. He watches the way she eats, how she holds herself, and he wonders if it would make him seem cool if he copied her posture and expressions. At the very least, he wonders if it would mean that the bullies would leave him alone for a change. Because even though Sebastian and his friends aren’t far off and they keep shooting him dirty looks, they’re staying away.

It feels good to be able to sit and eat lunch like everyone else and not have to worry for his safety—at least, for the time being. And Tristram is more grateful for that than he can say.

*

This time, when school is out and he’s waiting at the entrance, he’s more prepared to see Emily bounding up to him and stopping short of knocking him over in her enthusiasm. It’s still a shock, but he finds that he could very easily get used to this.

“Hey, Tris,” she says, greeting him brightly.

He smiles cautiously, fighting his instinct to bite his lip. “Hello, Emily.”

“Who are you waiting for?”

Tristram bites his lip at this, his fingers twisting nervously together. He’s not at all sure how to answer this question. His instinct is to be honest, but the lesson of the previous year is still fresh in his mind. “My father,” he answers uncertainly after a short pause, “or my uncle’s assistant.”

She cocks her head at him, looking interested and confused, but not in a bad way. “What about your mum?”

Tristram shrugs. “I’ve never met her.”

Emily’s eyes go wide and she sucks in a breath. “Did she die?”

“No.” He hesitates, because he’s afraid that if he says the wrong thing, Emily will turn out to be just like everyone else and call him a freak or laugh at him.

“Did your parents get divorced?”

Tristram shakes his head, his fingers knotted together and his knuckles white. “They weren’t married.”

“Oh,” she responds, but it doesn’t seem bad. Tristram’s not sure what it seems, but she hasn’t laughed or called him names, at least. “My mum died,” she says, looking at him earnestly.

He’s so grateful that she doesn’t ask about what happened to his mother—or anything else about his family, actually—that he almost smiles in relief. He has a feeling that wouldn’t be the right thing to do, though, so he doesn’t. “What happened?” he asks. He isn’t sure if that’s polite or not, but he can’t help but be curious.

“She was killed,” Emily whispers, her face paler than usual.

“How?” he blurts out and then immediately flushes and wishes he could take it back. He has a feeling he’s just made a major mistake and he cringes, waiting for her to yell at him or hit him for being rude.

To his surprise, though, she doesn’t. Her jaw clenches and she scrunches up her nose. “Don’t know. My dad said the police would find whoever did it, but they never did.”

Tristram feels his heart race because he’s sure his father could help and that’s what people do to be nice, they help each other, right? Tristram’s always longed to be able to help, so it’s on the tip of his tongue to explain that his father solves crimes and could probably solve whatever happened to Emily’s mum. He doesn’t get his chance, though, because Emily’s dad limps around the corner and Emily goes running over to him, hugging him fiercely.

Tristram’s heart squirms painfully in his chest as he watches Emily’s dad hug her back, listen to her talk, and laugh at something she says.

But that feeling is replaced by something lighter, happier, when she turns and waves merrily at him. He waves uncertainly back—still embarrassed from having run into her father earlier—but he knows he’s done the right thing when she smiles at him before she and her father walk away.

He watches them go and wonders for a brief moment what it would be like if his father always took him to school and came to pick him up, listened to everything he had to say, and laughed when he said something funny. His father loves him—Tristram is absolutely certain of this and always has been—but it’s not the way that other people seem to love. And that’s okay most of the time—maybe nearly all the time—but every once in awhile he wishes it were different.

Like now.

The feeling fades quickly, though, and Tristram finds his mind stuck on what Emily told him. And he determines that he’s going to ask his father to look into it, because he cares about Emily and he wants to help.

It feels…nice.


	3. Chapter Three

Tristram spends the trip home planning on asking his father if he would help work out what happened to Emily’s mum. And then he realises that he doesn’t know her name or when she died. Still, perhaps his father will relish the opportunity to deduce it?

Of course, when he gets home, his father fixes him with a stern look and Tristram’s heart sinks just a bit. It’s clear that his father knows about the experiment gone wrong. “Which one was it?” his father asks from the sofa.

Tristram bites his lip and sets his bag down, his fingers twisting together. “Slide two.” There’s no point in asking how his father knows, because his father _always_ knows.

His father temples his fingers and brings them to his lips in thought. “Hmm,” he murmurs. “Hyde Park. Well,” he says, removing his fingers and sitting up, fixing his eyes on Tristram once again, “I suppose we can go for a walk. I can see that there’s something you wish to discuss with me.”

Tristram nods, grabs his bag, and then runs upstairs to change out of his school uniform. While he’s changing, he’s still wondering how to ask his father about Emily’s mum when he realises that it might be rude to ask for help without her permission. He wonders what Uncle Mycroft would tell him to do in this situation. He banishes that thought, though, and thinks that maybe Emily would be pleased if he could help her with this.

She’d seemed so upset—he can’t help but remember the look on her face—and he finds that he desperately wants to help.

He races back downstairs as soon as he’s dressed, a small shovel and a plastic bag in his hands so that he can collect the soil without contaminating it. His father is waiting for him, long coat around his slim frame. When Tristram reaches him, his father removes Tristram’s coat from the coat rack and hands it to him, then wraps Tristram’s scarf around his neck before taking care of his own. He then sweeps ahead of Tristram, leaving his son to follow him out of the flat and onto Baker Street.

His father waits for Tristram to catch up and, when he does, holds out his gloved hand for his son to grab. Tristram, though tall for his age, is still much shorter than his father and has to walk quickly to keep up.

They turn south onto Baker Street and begin walking. Tristram always likes walking with his father because—as is typical when they walk together—they play one of Tristram’s favourite games. He doesn’t have a name for it, but the rules are that he has to describe people at his school or ones he’s seen on the street and his father will test him on how much he is able to deduce from what he’s observed. His father always seems content to play, and Tristram looks forward to earning his father’s approval. They don’t keep score, per se, but the deductions are deemed better the fewer reminders or hints his father has to provide. They move onto the next round when his father has to correct him or deduce something for him.

“My teacher,” Tristram starts, “is Mrs Norris and I’m almost as tall as she is.”

“Which makes her…”

“Average height for a woman in the UK.”

“Which is…?”

“5’4 or 162.5 centimetres.”

He glances at his father hopefully and is rewarded with a slight twitch upwards of his lip, signaling his approval of Tristram continuing. So he does. “She wears her hair long and straight, and her clothes are smart.”

“Which means…” his father prompts him.

Tristram is quiet while he attempts to work out what this might mean. “Which means that she’s strict?” He looks up at his father.

“Yes,” his father says after a moment, “strict, but not overly so.”

Tristram nods his agreement. That’s what he’s discovered about Mrs Norris so far. She’s strict but not mean, and she doesn’t stare at him as though he’s a freak like his teacher last year did.

“Jewellery?” his father asks him.

“A wedding ring,” Tristram answers. “It sparkles. It’s not very big.”

“Small fingers?”

Tristram nods.

“So what does that mean?”

He bites his lip, endeavoring to remember what a small ring on a small finger means. He finds himself fixating on how new it looked instead. “She’s only just got married?”

His father glances over at him and raises an eyebrow. “You must learn to be more confident in your deductions, Tristram.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Go on.”

And the game continues. Tristram is able to deduce that his teacher has been married for less than five years by the state of her wedding ring, and that her husband is older than her based on the conservative taste of her jewellery. He thinks, based on what he deduces with his father’s help and what he’s experienced in two days in her class, that he likes her more than he ever liked any of his other teachers. It leaves him with a cautious hope that he’s begun nursing that this year will be better than any other.

He’s forced to concede the game just as they reach the park because he thought she must have a young child based on how tired she always looks. But his father sighs and corrects him, saying that if she had young children then he would notice the smell of baby powder on her person. Tristram is forced to admit that he’s never smelled that. His father squeezes his hand and explains that her sleeplessness could be related to a number of things and that the evidence is too vague to be particularly helpful without other clues.

Tristram takes this to mean that he will have to watch her more closely the next day to gather additional data.

They turn into the park and take one of the paths, making their way towards The Serpentine.

“There was something you wished to discuss with me,” his father says, after long minutes of walking in silence. They’ve almost arrived to the spot where Tristram got his original soil sample from.

“Yes,” he answers cautiously. Now that the moment is in front of him, he’s not sure if he should bring it up.

His father looks down at him and Tristram experiences the familiar gaze—sharp and intense. He’s used to it at this point—he’d grown up with it, after all—but he nevertheless squirms slightly at being inspected so thoroughly. Still, he knows he has nothing to hide and, even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to anyway.

“There’s a girl at school,” he begins, hesitatingly, “whose mum got killed.”

They reach the spot and Tristram averts his eyes to the ground, kneels down to shovel a sample of the dirt into his bag.

“Go on,” his father’s voice rumbles.

He’s grateful that his father doesn’t stop him at this point, but he’s not sure what to say. “The police never found who did it,” he says, and he wonders if he should describe Emily and her father, or if he should mention that Emily seems to be his friend. Or, at least, well on her way to being his friend. He’s not precisely sure what friendship entails, but he’s reasonably certain that being nice to people and wanting to talk and eat lunch with them qualifies as friend-like behaviour.

“Of course,” his father breathes, sounding annoyed. Tristram can hear the eye roll in his voice. He bites his lip and concentrates on making sure he has enough soil for his experiment, and then takes his time sealing the bag and standing up. He looks up at his father.

“Do you think maybe you could solve it for her and her dad, Father?” He holds his breath because he feels as though he’s asking for a Christmas present three months early.

His father is staring down at him, an intense look in his eye, and Tristram hastily adds, “If you don’t already have a case, that is.” He’s not sure, but he knows that his father didn’t sleep last night, so it’s entirely possible that he’s already working on something.

That intense gaze doesn’t falter for a second, but his father gives him a considering look. “Why is it important?” He stretches out his hand in a clear signal that they’re about to leave.

Tristram takes his hand and they begin to walk back from where they’d come. While they walk, he takes some time to consider how he should answer. “I—” he begins, then cuts himself off, unsure. He feels his father squeeze his hand briefly and he takes a deep breath. “I think she may be my friend,” he mumbles.

He can feel his father’s stride hesitate ever so slightly, a brief hitch that is probably not discernable to anyone that doesn’t know his father as well as he does. It’s gone quickly, but Tristram knows he didn’t imagine it. “Ah,” is what his father says, but Tristram can tell he’s deep in thought.

They are both silent as they follow the path back to the main road, but instead of walking back to Baker Street, his father hails a cab and ushers him inside. He still hasn’t answered Tristram’s request, but Tristram knows better than to push. His father hasn’t forgotten, he’s merely considering and it’s better if he doesn’t interrupt.

They’re nearly back to Baker Street when his father finally speaks. “What can you tell me?”

Tristram smiles in relief, a brief one that flitters across his face before he adopts his usual serious expression. “Her name is Emily Watson and her father walks with a limp and uses a crutch. He’s about average height with dark blonde hair and blue eyes.”

His father frowns. “Yes, but what of the mother?” His words and tone hint at impatience and Tristram clutches the shovel and the plastic bag tighter in his hands, his knuckles turning white. He’s beginning to think he should have waited until he had more information.

“Erm,” he says and cringes slightly at the stern look his father is giving him. His father absolutely hates it when he uses filler sounds when speaking, but sometimes he can’t help it when he gets nervous. “I don’t know much,” he admits hastily. “She only told me today after school.”

At that moment, Tristram hears his father’s mobile ping and Tristram fidgets in his seat. Not only is his father probably going to tell him off for not having enough information, but that noise usually means that the police have a case for his father and he knows that that will be his father’s priority as long as he doesn’t find it too dull. It’s just as well because it means that he’ll have time to find out more about Emily’s mum.

The cab stops in front of their flat and his father opens the door for him. Tristram climbs out and looks seriously at his father. “Go inside and tell Mrs Hudson that I’ve gone to Scotland Yard to meet with Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Tristram nods dutifully. “And make sure you have some dinner before you go to bed. Order takeaway if there’s nothing in.”

Tristram nods again. “Yes, Father.”

“And make sure to do your homework and resume your experiment with the new sample. I expect to see the new data when you arrive home from school tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father.”

His father nods. “Very well. Go inside. If I’m home before your bedtime, we’ll discuss your request.”

“Yes, Father,” Tristram responds, relieved that he’s avoided a scolding. His father reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, then leans forward and shuts the door of the cab. Tristram heads inside to do as his father said, and is not terribly surprised when his bedtime arrives and his father hasn’t. As he climbs into bed, he plans to ask Emily all about her mum and tell her the good news.

He can’t help the smile on his face as he drifts off to sleep.


	4. Chapter Four

His father isn’t back the next morning, but Tristram knows not to worry. He calmly eats his breakfast and gets ready for school. He’s about to leave when Mrs Hudson stops him and tells him that his father will be there to pick him up after school today, so Tristram’s to wait at the entrance until he arrives.

Tristram blinks in surprise, because it’s unusual for his father to walk him home from school, but he tells himself it’s probably so that he can meet Emily and her father and deduce more about them than Tristram can.

He’s really not sure how he feels about that. Nervous, yes, but also excited. It suddenly seems important that he ask Emily if she’s really his friend and if she wants his father to investigate. But he’s not sure how to have that conversation at all.

He broods during his walk, and is so distracted during class that he misses the fact that Sebastian keeps staring at him all through English lessons and Maths.

It comes as something of a surprise when—during mid-morning break, as he’s looking around for Emily—Sebastian and his friends loom into view and drag him off to bully him. Unlike the previous time, though, he fights back.

“Let me go!” he yells, struggling against the hands that grip his shirt collar and his arms. It helps that he’s taller than the boys holding him, but he’s not strong enough—there are too many of them and only one of him and he’s wondering where Emily is now. Not that he wants her to rescue him again—that’d been embarrassing enough the first time—but he has to admit that he’d feel better if she were there.

Still, when they push him to the ground, he gets to his feet as quickly as possible. He ignores his bag and his books scattered around him; instead, he focuses on the boys laughing at him. He’s determined that this year is going to be different and he’s done being bullied.

“Aww, you think you’re so brave, but you’re all alone. Not even your _girlfriend_ is here to save you,” Trevor taunts and the other boys laugh.

Tristram flushes hotly and his jaw clenches. “She’s not my _girlfriend_ ,” he hisses and clenches his hands into fists. He could punch them in their gaping, laughing mouths, he really could.

The others laugh derisively at him and circle around him, sharks smelling blood in the water.

“She’s not!” he insists, his hands still clenched into fists. He draws himself to his full height and looks down his nose at them, imitating his father’s favourite method of intimidation. “You’re just jealous,” he announces. “Because I’m obviously smarter than you lot and you can’t stand it.”

Sebastian glares at him and gets in his personal space, shoving him hard. Tristram focuses his energy on staying upright. “Why would anyone be jealous of a _freak_ like you?”

Tristram grits his teeth. “I’m not a freak!” he shouts defensively.

Sebastian smirks at him. “Yes, you are. ‘S why no one wants to be your friend. Freak.”

“Well, at least I don’t wet the bed at night,” Tristram retorts.

The words ring through the suddenly silent air and everyone turns to Sebastian, whose face is mottled red and white. It remains eerily quiet as Sebastian sputters in indignation and Tristram allows himself to take a deep breath, his heart still pounding in fear and anger. “I do not!” Sebastian finally shouts, his defiant glare undermined by the steady paleness creeping over his face.

Tristram tenses. He’s learned to tell the signs of a bed wetter because his father once pointed out that one of the kids that bullied him did so to compensate for his shame. Also, when Sebastian had been in Tristram’s face, he’d smelt the smell of urine very faintly. His father believed that having sensitive senses was vital to making accurate deductions, and had once gone on at length on the subject.

“Yes you do,” Tristram states flatly, his fingernails digging into his palms.

Sebastian’s face turns ugly and his muscles tense in preparation to launch himself at Tristram when one of the boys behind him sniggers.

The sniggers turn into laughter and Sebastian looks murderous. He takes two purposeful steps forward and Tristram brings his hands up to defend himself when the fight about to take place is interrupted before it starts.

“What is going on here?” Mrs Norris comes to stand between Sebastian and Tristram and the latter can’t help but feel relieved. He’s never attempted to defend himself physically against a bully before and he knows that he’s made himself a permanent enemy in Sebastian. Still, he’s not sorry for it. Sebastian had it coming.

“He started it--!”

“Did not!” Tristram yells, glaring at Sebastian. “He pushed me and called me a freak--!”

“Did not!” Sebastian glares at Tristram. “He called me a bed wetter!”

“It’s--”

“Enough!” Mrs Norris says firmly, sending both Sebastian and Tristram stern glances. “I don’t care _who_ started it,” she continues and is interrupted as both boys try to make their cases.

“But--”

“Mrs Norris--”

“Quiet.” Tristram and Sebastian both close their mouths, though Sebastian glares angrily at Tristram while Tristram does his best to ignore him. He’s sick of arguing and he just wants the other boy to go away and leave him alone.

“Consider this a warning, you two. If I see you out here fighting again, you’ll have to stay after. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mrs Norris,” the two boys chorus, Sebastian looking mutinous and Tristram simply resigned. It’s not the first time he’s been threatened with that, nor, he suspects, will it be the last.

Mrs Norris looks sternly between the two boys. “All right,” she says slowly, and then shoos them in two separate directions. Sebastian sends one last glare Tristram’s way and walks off with his friends, who have rallied round to his side after the intervention of the teacher.

Tristram walks over to Emily and he’s not sure what to say. He knows she went and got Mrs Norris to break the fight up and he’s glad that she didn’t intervene herself—again, because then the taunts about her being his girlfriend would _never_ stop—but he feels that he might have had the upper hand, for once. Still, he’s grateful that he didn’t get beat up, as he always hates hearing his father deduce exactly how many times he’s been hit and from how many other children.

“Hey,” he mutters to her, stooping to pick up his books and his bag.

“Hi,” she replies, bending over to help him without him even asking. She hands him his books and he puts them in his bag. He hesitates, his fingers worrying at the strap.

“Thanks,” he mumbles after a pause.

She shrugs in response and Tristram is so grateful that she doesn’t say anything that he immediately relaxes, exhaling a long breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. He’s about to ask her if she wants to go over towards the playground when the bell rings.

Emily sends him an apologetic look. “See you at lunch,” she says as she runs off towards her classroom. Tristram sighs and heads towards his, pondering yet again how to ask about her mother. He’s no expert at interacting with others, but he suspects that it will be a difficult conversation.

*

The minute his class is let out for lunch, he’s out of the door, glancing around for Emily. He spots her exiting her classroom and walks over to her, and is pleased to see that she smiles at him when their eyes meet.

“Hey, Tris,” she greets him easily, tugging at his sleeve in the direction of the lunch room.

They find a place to sit together and Tristram’s class gets called up to get lunch first. By the time they’ve both got their lunches, twenty minutes of their break has gone. Tristram picks at his food, feeling vaguely uncomfortable because he wants to ask Emily about her mum, but he’s not sure how to begin.

“Are you okay?” Emily asks him, frowning because she’s caught him pushing his potatoes around his tray.

Tristram shrugs and glances at her nervously.

“Are you thinking about earlier?”

He shakes his head and abandons his food, looking at her earnestly. “What does your father do?” he asks and bites his lip when he sees her blink in confusion.

“He’s a doctor. Why?”

Tristram is honestly surprised, because he’s been to see the doctor before—more than one, in fact—and Emily’s dad is nothing like them. Doctors, in his experience, are older and smile too much and have very white teeth and wear expensive watches. They always ask him a lot of questions and it always makes him squirm uncomfortably. He’s never got used to people asking him questions about himself because no one ever does at home.

“Oh,” he says after a minute and he bites his lip. “My father is a detective,” he offers, and then hesitates.

His gaze falls on his potatoes and he whispers, “Are you my friend?”

“Yes,” she answers immediately and he heaves a sigh of relief, a grin lighting his features.

“Oh, okay,” he beams, looking up at her and scooting forward in his seat. He’s so excited he almost knocks his tray to the ground, but he pays it little mind. “My dad’s a detective,” he repeats, “and he solves crimes. I thought maybe he could solve your mum’s…” he trails off, suddenly shy and uncertain as to the polite way to phrase it.

But Emily appears unruffled. She leans forward, too, her lunch forgotten. “You think so?” she asks, doubt and hope warring in her tone of voice.

Tristram nodds at once. “Yes. He’s the best,” he says fervently, in the tone of a boy who looks up to no one as much as his father. “He’s never failed to solve a case.”

Emily’s eyes widen, and Tristram thinks she seems impressed. “Really?”

“Yes.”

She smiles at him, then, but it’s not the same as her usual smile. He doesn’t know why she looks different, but she seems scared and determined and happy and angry all at once. Tristram has never met anyone whose face showed so many emotions and expressions and he finds it so interesting. “What happens now?”

“Well,” Tristram begins, eyes locked with hers, “I already asked him about it and he wanted me to find out everything I could, like what your mum’s name is and when it happened.”

“I don’t know everything,” Emily says after a pause, “because my dad didn’t tell me everything. Mum’s name was Mary Watson and she died on 10th June 2007. The police said she was mugged and killed, but Dad never believed that.”

“How come?” Tristram asks, intensely curious. He wonders if this is what his father feels when he’s presented with an interesting case.

Emily shrugs, sniffling slightly, but otherwise fine. “Never said. He just didn’t seem to think that was what happened.”

Tristram is secretly relieved because this case seems interesting and his father will be more willing to investigate if it is. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask where it happened and what else Emily knows when the lunch bell sounds. He sighs reluctantly and stands up. Emily seems just as reluctant to go back to class and Tristram worries for a moment that he’ll let her down somehow. It’s not that he doubts his father’s ability—quite the opposite, in fact—it’s more that he’s worried the case won’t be very interesting and his father won’t want to investigate it or that something else more interesting will come along and he’ll set this aside.

As they walk back towards their classrooms, Emily tugs on his sleeve and looks at him seriously. “Thanks, Tris.”

He gulps painfully, but answers automatically. “You’re welcome.”

She smiles slightly at him then bounds off to join her classmates. He sighs and hitches his bag higher on his shoulder as he slips back into his room. The only person he cares to be noticed by is Emily and he’s very certain he’d like to avoid being noticed by Sebastian or any of his friends. He just hopes his father doesn’t wait too long to come pick him up.

*

Once school is over, he manages to avoid Sebastian and his friends and wait near the entrance for his father. He takes extra care to observe everyone he can see because his father is talented at hiding in plain sight. But no one that he can see is the same height as his father—they’re all too short and while his father is good a disguising himself, his height is something that stands out.

Tristram waits patiently, glancing around himself to keep an eye out for his father and also for Emily. He’s hoping to get a chance to talk with her about what they discussed earlier. He feels happy thinking about it—not the part where they talked about her mum, but the part where she told him she was his friend. He’s never had a real friend before and it feels really good. It more than makes up for getting in trouble earlier when he was fighting with Sebastian.

And he still thinks Sebastian deserved what he got. No amount of punishment is going to make him feel bad about that.

He hasn’t waited long when he sees Emily walk out of school with her father, a bounce in her step and her hands waving dramatically as she speaks. Tristram smiles hesitantly when she waves and beams at him, and then blushes when she winks at him. All the other kids are going to think that she’s his girlfriend if they see her doing stuff like that, but he can’t muster up any anger over it, so he settles for waving back at her. He experiences a moment of uncertainty, afraid of what she might tell her father about their conversation, but he’ll talk to her about it tomorrow. Right now, he’s simply basking in the knowledge that he has a real friend.

It’s only a few minutes after Emily and her father have rounded the corner that he sees his own father striding towards him from the opposite direction. Tristram is happy to see him, and glad that he didn’t have to wait too long because he hasn’t seen Sebastian leave yet—who knows where he may be lurking.

Tristram is even more relieved to ascertain that his father doesn’t appear to be agitated or impatient, so Tristram walks towards him and stops when they reach other. They pause for a moment before his father offers him his hand and then they’re walking towards Baker Street.

“So,” his father says, “what have you learned?”

And Tristram happily regales him with every piece of information that Emily told him, and he’s even happier when his father agrees to look into the case. He’s so pleased, he doesn’t even mind talking about how Emily told him she was his friend and how she’d proven it and that he stood up to a bully and was able to deduce that Sebastian was a bed wetter. He is happy to note, when his story winds down, that his father’s lips are tilted upwards in a look that Tristram recognises as amusement and contentment.

When they arrive home, Tristram and his father sit in the sitting room and Tristram talks about his experiment and the data he’s collected, while his father discusses the case he’s just solved. All in all, Tristram reflects when he goes to bed several hours later, it’s the best day he’s had in a long time.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one chapter tonight because I'm exhausted. Should be back to two tomorrow night, and then from there it will, probably, be one chapter per night until the whole thing is posted.

The next morning, Tristram is surprised when his father decides to walk him to school. While it is not, strictly speaking, unheard of for his father to walk him to school twice in one week, it is rare. And, more to the point, he very rarely does so the day after he walks him home from school.

They walk together in silence today, but it’s comfortable and Tristram doesn’t mind because he and his father talked quite a bit the night before. When they reach the school’s entrance, his father stops him from going in with hands on his shoulders.

“You are going to your uncle’s after school today,” he says, and his face twists briefly as if the thought is unpleasant. Tristram imagines that his own face looks very similar at the mention of mushrooms, which he _hates_ because they are slimy and taste disgusting. He’s always glad that his father knows this and never makes him eat them.

“You’ll be eating dinner there.”

He nods in response and his father squeezes his shoulders. “Very well. I will see you when you return. I have some matters to discuss with Lestrade, so while I’m there I’ll look into the matter you brought to my attention.”

Tristram smiles at his father. “Thank you.”

His father nods and glances over Tristram’s head towards the entrance of the school. He then looks back at Tristram and his lips twitch into a brief smile. “Your friend is waiting for you,” he says, and Tristram twists around to look over his shoulder where, sure enough, Emily is waiting. She is looking curiously at them, but doesn’t come any closer.

He looks back at his father, who squeezes his shoulders once more and then releases him. He nods to Tristram in farewell and walks back to the street to hail a cab.

Tristram heads over to the entrance and meets Emily there. The fact that she is smiling at him still makes him feel a bit wary, as if he could wake at any moment and the last couple days will not have happened. He is getting better at pushing those thoughts out of his head, though. “Was that your dad?”

It’s strange to hear someone refer to his father as his ‘dad,’ because Tristram _always_ refers to him as ‘Father.’ Nevertheless, he nods. “Yeah.”

“You look just like him.”

Personally, Tristram doesn’t completely agree, though he’s heard this sentiment expressed often enough. After he’d heard it three times in the same day from three different people, he went home and looked in a mirror to carefully catalogue the differences. He came to the conclusion that his hair is lighter and shorter, though it curls in a similar way to his father’s. His eyes are a darker blue and his eyebrows are thinner and his cheekbones less severe. Also, his face is slightly rounder in general and not as long.

But, he supposes, to the untrained eye—or to people who only glance quickly at them—they do look remarkably alike, which suits Tristram fine. He never complains or clarifies when people make the comparison, because he can think of worse people to look like than his father. Sebastian is one of them, he thinks, as he and Emily walk to the classrooms and he spots the boy.

Sebastian sneers at him but stays away, and Tristram hopes he continues to, at least for today.

He shrugs in response to Emily, and then the teachers are calling them into their classrooms, so he says goodbye and goes to line up in front of Mrs Norris’s door.

*

He doesn’t see Emily again until lunch, because he had to spend his mid-morning break in the bathroom trying to dry his shirt after Trevor ‘accidentally’ tripped while walking past him carrying a cup of water. He knows it wasn’t an accident, of course, but at least it was only water and Mrs Norris—who, evidentially, didn’t believe it was an accident, either—told Trevor off and gave him lines during break. Still, he’d had to sit for twenty minutes before he’d been able to go dry off.

Mrs Norris had given him the chance to go immediately to the bathroom, but he’d almost finished his assignment and he’d found it interesting for once—normally class science assignments were boring compared to his experiments at home—so he’d completed it first. Besides, it could have been worse. He’d once spilled hydrochloric acid on himself and cried bloody murder while his father had done his best to patch him up and make him feel better. He could tell his father had been truly concerned because he’d not bothered to scold him at all and had even given him a hug after the whole ordeal was over.

So, when it’s finally time for lunch, he hurries out of the classroom and looks around for his friend. He spots her heading out of her class and starts towards her until he spots two girls walking next to her, talking and laughing.

He stops in his tracks and hesitates, unsure. He likes Emily because she’s his friend, but he’s not sure who the girls with her are and he’s a little afraid they’ll act like everyone else and laugh at him.

But then Emily’s eyes meet his and she says goodbye to the girls and walks over to him. He can’t help sighing in relief.

“Come on, Tris,” she says, tugging at his bag. “If we don’t hurry, all the good tables’ll be gone.”

He follows without comment.

Once they’ve both got their lunches and are sitting facing each other, Emily leans forward and whispers, “What did your dad say?”

Tristram swallows the food in his mouth and keeps his voice low. “He’s going to talk to the police today to look up your mum’s case.” He’s pleased to see her smile. “Did you tell your dad about it?”

She shakes her head and Tristram sighs in relief. “No. Dad gets grumpy when anyone talks about Mum, and you seemed like you didn’t know for sure if your dad was going to do it, so…” she trails off and shrugs and Tristram marvels at how well his friend is able to read him even though they’ve only known each other for a couple of days.

“You probably shouldn’t say anything yet,” he says, aware that relief is colouring his voice. “My father’s never been wrong about a case, but sometimes other cases come up and he has to take those instead.” He’s not sure if it’s right to tell her about that, he doesn’t want her to worry, but he’s known his father all of his life and he knows how easily he gets bored.

Her eyes widen and, for a brief, heart-stopping moment, Tristram thinks she’s going to get angry. She doesn’t, though. Instead, she looks intrigued. “You mean, if there’s a murder that’s just happened, then he has to find the bad guy right away so he can’t do it again?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

Emily looks impressed. “Does he go on chases? I saw on the telly once, there was this bad guy and this policeman had to chase him through the streets while the bad guy shot at him.”

Now it’s Tristram’s turn to look intrigued. “Do they show that on telly?”

Emily nods. “Yeah, all the time. I’m not supposed to watch that stuff, but if my dad’s out, my Aunt Harry’ll let me watch with her sometimes.”

“You have an aunt named Harry?” And Tristram thought his name was horrid.

Emily nods, taking a bite of her lunch. “Yeah. Her name’s Harriet, but everyone calls her Harry. She and dad don’t always get on, but she’s fun.”

Tristram thinks Emily’s family sounds fascinating and he desperately wants to ask more questions so she’ll tell him everything about them. “You never said if your dad goes on chases,” Emily says before he gets a chance to open his mouth.

“Oh,” he says, and then he hesitates, thinking. “I don’t know. He’s never really said. I think so.”

“That’s brilliant,” she says reverently, her eyes bright and focused on him, as though he’s just told her the most interesting thing she’s ever heard. “I’ve always wanted to go on a chase.”

“Yeah?”

She nods and leans forward closer to him. “My dad used to be in the army,” she says.

“Really?” Tristram thinks that sounds way more interesting than what his father does, and he’s surprised she doesn’t sound more impressed by it.

“Yeah. He’s never been on a chase,” she says apologetically, as if the story won’t be as interesting as a result, “but he shot someone once.”

Tristram drops his fork, but he doesn’t even notice. “How come?”

“He never said,” she says in frustration, clearly bothered by not knowing. “I just know he did because he talks in his sleep sometimes.”

“Oh.” Tristram hasn’t thought much about Emily’s dad, except that he seemed nice and he loves Emily and he gives her hugs all the time—which Tristram thought looked very comforting—and that he doesn’t seem like any doctor Tristram has ever met. But now, the man seems more and more interesting and Tristram wants to study him. He wonders if his father would know all of this. He suddenly wants his father to meet Emily’s dad, just so that he can hear everything his father would deduce about him.

Silence descends over them, but it’s not uncomfortable. Tristram finds himself pondering Emily’s dad, and how—like his daughter—he’s much more than what he appears to be on the surface.

The lunch bell rings and he and Emily go their separate ways and he finds himself wondering, again, what his father would make of Emily and her dad. He can only hope that his father would like them, in his own way.

*

Once school is out, Tristram dutifully waits at the entrance for his uncle’s assistant to pick him up.

Emily catches him up a minute later and she stands with him as her dad hasn’t come to collect her yet. “Is your dad coming to get you?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “My uncle’s assistant. I visit with my uncle every Thursday after school.”

“Oh. What’s he like?”

Tristram bites his lip because his uncle is a tricky subject at the best of times. “He’s…nice,” he says, cautiously. “He plays the piano,” he offers after a pause.

“You play piano?”

Tristram cringes slightly because he can remember when some of his classmates found that out last year. He’d been teased mercilessly about it, since it seemed so _girly_. She doesn’t seem to be making fun of him, though, so he nods.

“I tried to learn once,” she says, sounding envious, and holds up her hands, “but my fingers are too short. I couldn’t reach any of the keys.” She frowns at them as though they’ve offended her.

Tristram knows he’s lucky to have hands like his father, which are large. He has long fingers, too, and it makes reaching all the keys that much easier. Being tall to reach the foot pedals is helpful, too.

“I’m learning to play a duet with my uncle for my grandmother,” he says, hesitantly.

“What’s it called?”

He bites his lip. “Piano Sonata for Four Hands, Opus No 6,” he says and, at her blank look, adds, “It’s Beethoven.”

“Oh,” she says, but he can tell that didn’t clear anything up for her. “Like in that Beatles song?” she asks after a minute.

He blinks at her blankly. “Who?”

“The Beatles,” she looks at him curiously and in dawning shock. “You don’t know who _The Beatles_ are?”

“No?” he asks, absolutely certain this isn’t the right answer but the only beetles he’s heard of are insects that comprise the order _Coleoptera_.

“Oh my God,” she says, stunned. “Everyone knows who they are!”

Tristram bites his lip and winces. He hates not knowing something that everyone else does.

“Well,” she says firmly, “you’ll just have to come over on Saturday so you can listen to them.”

Tristram stares at her in shock. He thinks, despite never having experienced it before, that he’s just been invited to hang out with someone. A friend. He suddenly doesn’t feel at all bad that he’s never heard of these people.

“Really?” he asks, dazedly.

She nods. “Yes. I’ll ask my dad when he gets here.”

“Okay. And I’ll ask my father when I see him.”

“Tell me tomorrow what he says.”

“All right,” he beams. He simply can’t believe his luck and he doesn’t think that Emily’s dad can get there fast enough, because he wants to know if he’s really invited.

It seems to take ages—but is, in reality, not very long at all—before they both spot Emily’s dad limping around the corner. Emily bounds over to him and hugs him tight. Tristram watches as he laughs and hugs her back, playfully ruffling her hair as he pulls away. He rests his free hand on her shoulder and looks to be ready to walk back the way he came, but Emily shakes her head and says something that Tristram can’t hear. After a moment—during which Emily talks and gestures enthusiastically and her father listens calmly with a small smile on her face—they both turn and walk over to Tristram.

His heart is pounding in his chest fiercely and his palms are sweaty. He’s used to being nervous, but this is new because he’s nervous and excited at the same time. It’s a strange, but not altogether unpleasant, feeling.

“Dad,” Emily says as they come to a stop in front of him, “this is Tris. Tris, this is my dad.”

Emily’s dad smiles in a friendly way at Tristram, who can’t help blushing from nerves and from remembering running into him on Tuesday.

“Hello, Tris. Emily’s told me quite a bit about you. Pleased to meet you.” And then he removes his hand from Emily’s shoulder and holds it out to Tristram.

He cautiously shakes hands with Emily’s dad at first, but remembers to grasp firmly and make his grip firm and confident, as his uncle taught him. “Hello, Doctor Watson,” he says quietly.

“Dad,” Emily says, looking at him imploringly, “can Tris come over on Saturday? Please?”

Doctor Watson appears to think about it, but Tris can see he’s fighting a smile and a tension he was unaware of loosens in his chest. “Well, you’ll have to clean your room first,” he says and Emily pouts a bit.

“Fine,” she says, and then beams at Tristram. “What time?”

It takes Tristram a moment to realise that she’s talking to him, since his heart feels suddenly too large for his thin chest. “I-I don’t know,” he stutters, his palms still sweaty, but he’s really happy. Thrilled. The time doesn’t even matter to him. A friend has invited him to come over. It’s the first time that’s ever happened and he couldn’t be more thrilled. This has easily been the best week of his life. “I’ll ask my father,” he says, when he can reliably form words.

Emily looks up to her dad in thought. “Can he come over for lunch?”

Doctor Watson smiles. “If his dad says it’s okay.”

Emily beams at him. “Come over at noon if your dad says it’s all right.”

“Okay,” he answers with a giddy smile of his own. “I’ll ask him as soon as I see him,” he promises.

He stands there and he looks at both of them and there are so many questions he wants to ask, so many things he’s curious about and thinks would be interesting to hear about, but he spots a dark car pull up to the kerb and he sighs, his smile dimming a bit. “I have to go,” he says and looks over to the dark car.

His uncle’s assistant climbs out, her mobile in hand, and holds the door open for him without even looking at him.

Emily and her father follow his gaze and both seem somewhat surprised to see a car waiting for him, door held open. It’s always rather embarrassing, even if he is used to it, so he tries not to blush too much. “See you,” he says to Emily and she looks back at him and ruffles his hair.

That causes him to blush more, he’s absolutely certain of it, but he doesn’t mind so much. Emily’s father raises his eyebrows, but smiles and says, “Goodbye, Tris. It was nice to finally meet you.”

Tristram bites his lip and smiles shyly in response. “Bye, Doctor Watson.” He hesitates for a second, shifting on his feet, then he walks over to the car and climbs in. His uncle’s assistant climbs in and shuts the door and the car begins to drive off. He turns in his seat to watch Emily and her dad until he can no longer see them.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. Tomorrow there will be two chapters posted--I'd forgotten that seven and eight go together. So, erm, sorry about that. Here's chapter six, though. :)

Thursdays have only recently become his day to visit with his uncle.

His father used to complain angrily every week when he’d be picked up by a dark car right after school, or, during summer, promptly at two in the afternoon. He’d get in the car with Tristram, and—when they arrived at his uncle’s—pull Uncle Mycroft into a separate room and yell at him for a long time. Tristram could never make out actual words during the conversation, but he’d usually hear his father’s raised voice, followed by a very low murmur, sometimes interrupted by his father’s complaints.

Those days were always incredibly uncomfortable for Tristram, who would be left to entertain himself in the library, difficult because he hadn’t been able to read many of the books back then.

It’s been better lately, though, because his uncle won the argument and his father has resigned himself to the fact that Uncle Mycroft wants to spend time with Tristram; having a set day every week to do this during is more convenient for everyone involved.

And while Tristram knows that his father sometimes wishes Tristram hated his uncle as much as he does, the truth is that he really doesn’t. Uncle Mycroft is interesting and allows Tristram to read whatever books he likes and to sit with him in his office while he does his work. He also never deduces Tristram. He doesn’t know why it would bother him if his uncle did—it doesn’t bother him when his father does it, most of the time—but it’s different with Uncle Mycroft. Tristram is sure that his uncle has deduced this about him, too, but they’ve never discussed it. Instead, his uncle allows Tristram to tell him things—how he’s doing in school, if he’s been bullied or not, what experiments he’s working on—and will listen quietly and attentively to whatever Tristram has to say.

It’s nice, and it’s different, and Tristram likes that.

The absolute highlight of his visit, though, is his piano lesson. Originally, he’d had a piano tutor who would sit with him—under Uncle Mycroft’s ever-watchful eye—and teach him fingering and scales and simple songs like ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’ But one day he turned up on a Thursday and his piano tutor never showed. Instead, Uncle Mycroft taught him, and he learned infinitely more difficult, but more beautiful music.

His last few lessons have been taken up with learning Beethoven’s Opus 6, Sonata in D Major for four hands. Tristram appreciates the sprightly music, but more than that, he relishes playing with his uncle, who is incredibly talented. He also, secretly, wants his father to be pleased and proud of him, even if he’s not playing the violin. He’d wanted to learn the violin first, but his uncle had wanted him to start with the piano, and while he’d never dream of arguing with his uncle, his father had had no problem doing just that—and loudly. They’d had quite the row the day the subject of which musical instrument he should learn was raised, and it’d been supremely uncomfortable for Tristram—alone in the library, trying to keep his mind off the raised voices and failing utterly.

It was the first, and only, time he’d heard actual words and they’d made him squirm. When it was over, his father had stormed out and demanded that Tristram follow him, and he’d not been allowed to his see his uncle for weeks until Grandmother had interceded and brokered a peace. Everyone had agreed that Tristram would learn the piano first in order to learn how to read music, and if he still wanted to play violin after a few years, he would be allowed to switch.

Tristram hadn’t thought he’d love playing the piano as much as he does. He still wants to learn violin, though, because he wants—at some point—to play a duet with his father. But for now, he’s happy to play with his uncle, and he loves the piece they’re practicing and plan to play. He only hopes his grandmother will enjoy it, too.

These thoughts are far from Tristram’s mind, however, as he sits in his uncle’s office. His uncle is on a call to America—something about a government conference, though Tristram isn’t paying attention—and he knows that he is to stay quiet and be patient.

He is attempting to do his homework—it’s one of his uncle’s rules, that he finish his homework before they have their piano lesson—but he’s not able to focus.

Ever since he left school to be driven to his uncle’s, his thoughts have circled back to the same topics: asking his father for permission to go over to Emily’s house, whether or not his father is—at this precise moment—working on Emily’s mum’s case, if he’s found anything, and wondering if his father will like his new friend and her father and vice versa.

The most pressing concern, of course, is getting permission to go over to Emily’s. He can’t exactly predict what his father’s reaction will be because he’s never been invited over to a classmate’s house before. And even if he had, he’d never wanted to go. But this is different.

His mind is so caught up in these thoughts that he doesn’t immediately notice when his uncle ends his call. It’s only when his uncle says his name in a slightly scolding manner that Tristram blinks and startles, his eyes focusing on his uncle.

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” he says, with a bit of a blush.

His uncle smiles kindly at him. “You seem to have something on your mind,” he says mildly, his attention completely on Tristram.

Tristram nods and puts his pencil down, abandoning the pretence that he was working on his homework. He bites his lip and looks at his uncle earnestly. “I’ve been invited over to a friend’s house,” he says quietly.

His uncle raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t speak. Tristram knows it’s an invitation and he’s glad that his uncle doesn’t ask him anything. Questions have a tendency to make him uncomfortable, especially if they’re about things he’s not yet sure about. Uncle Mycroft knows this, of course, and allows him to explain all about his first week of school uninterrupted—how he met Emily, how they talked about her mum, and how he asked his father to look into it for him.

And then he talks about how Emily invited him over to listen to music.

He takes a deep breath after such a torrent of words, and then he asks, “Do you know who the Beatles are?”

His uncle makes a slight face which seems to suggest that he not only knows of them, but finds them distasteful in some way. The look is gone almost immediately, but he knows how important paying close attention to facial expressions is when it comes to deductions. He doesn’t miss it, but he doesn’t know exactly what to make of it, either.

“Yes,” his uncle finally answers, his voice as calm and unruffled as ever. “They were a popular music group from the 1960’s, I believe.”

Tristram considers this. Despite his uncle’s opinion, he’s actually somewhat keen to listen to them. He’s not completely missed out on popular music, even if he’s primarily been exposed to classical music. Often, on his way to school or while he’s walking with his father, he’ll hear the thrumming of a bass as a car passes—so deep and heavy he can feel it in his chest—or he’ll hear snatches of singing. It’s not much, usually, but it’s enough for him to know that what his father, uncle, and grandmother expose him to is different from what other people generally listen to. And he’s intensely curious to hear it.

His uncle sighs slightly, but Tristram thinks it’s a fond sound rather than an irritated one, and he stretches his arms in front of him and rolls his shoulders. “Well,” he says as he stands and looks at Tristram, “I think perhaps we could both use a distraction from work.”

Tristram beams and stands as well, trailing after his uncle as they head into the music room where the piano is. He reasons that it’s okay to take a break from his work right now because he’s doing work that’s due next week and, anyway, it’s not particularly difficult and won’t take him long. He’d rather have his music lesson and work on their duet.

They spend the next two hours practising and Tristram loves it because he can focus completely on the music and not worry about anything else.

*

After his music lesson is over—and he feels much calmer now, because playing always calms him down—he and his uncle go into the small dining room for dinner. As he eats his dinner—which is roast and potatoes, a nice contrast from the takeaway he and his father usually eat—he glances over at his uncle. His uncle knows his father better than anyone and he always seems to know how he’ll react to things.

He finishes chewing his food and sets his fork down carefully.

“Yes, Tristram?” his uncle asks, setting his own fork down and focusing on him.

“Do you think Father will let me go?”

He watches his uncle carefully because he’s desperately curious, and because he thinks if he discusses it with Uncle Mycroft first, he’ll feel better prepared to bring the topic up with his father when he gets home.

“Hmm,” his uncle says, looking thoughtful. “I don’t see why he would say no. Your father…doesn’t place many restrictions on you, and when he does he has his reasons,” he finally answers, after a short pause and with a blank look on his face and a slight tightening of his knuckles that Tristram knows means something, although he’s unable to comprehend what.

Uncle Mycroft has a point, of course. His father rarely tells him no, but that’s because Tristram has learned what sorts of things his father will disapprove of—children’s fantasy books, for example, or going to the cinema—and, therefore, what is worth asking about and what isn’t.

Tristram nods and takes another bite of his food. He’s not sure if his uncle will want to know about how nervous he is to ask, how important it is to him, but it’s probably not necessary to mention it. He imagines it’s written all over his face. “Do you think he’ll like them?” he asks instead.

Uncle Mycroft tilts his head slightly in thought, but he stays silent, which Tristram knows is his uncle’s way of avoiding answering a question. Tristram suspects that it’s because he should already know the answer to it. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

He looks down at his food and suddenly is no longer as hungry as he was. His stomach feels hollow in an uncomfortable way, so he gingerly pushes his plate away from him—carefully, so he doesn’t make a mess or knock anything over, as he’s done in the past—and sighs.

Uncle Mycroft doesn’t say anything, and that’s okay because Tristram doesn’t expect him to, but he finds himself thinking that maybe it won’t be as bad as his uncle thinks or he fears. Perhaps his father will be in a good mood and maybe—just maybe—he’ll get along splendidly with Emily and maybe even with Doctor Watson.

He bites his lip and twists his fingers together, the sick-nervous feeling in his stomach making him want to curl up in a ball on his bed at home. He wonders if Harry Potter or any of his friends ever felt like this during one of their adventures—when he was facing Voldemort, maybe—or even earlier, when he was dreading going to school in the grey uniform. Were his insides twisting, making it difficult to speak or think? Tristram decides that that must be it and that he should face it like Harry always seems to—bravely, even in the face of nervous terror.

Still, he’s more relieved than he can say when his uncle clears his throat and asks him about his soil experiment. His uncle is a very good conversationalist and Tristram is grateful when they talk of everything but school and his father until dinner is over and it’s time for him to go home.

*

When he arrives home, his father is waiting for him. And he sees—as his stomach twists itself into knots to match his tongue—that his father is sitting on the sofa, hands pressed together and to his lips, staring off into the middle distance.

His father subjects Tristram to his typical stare—intense, as though he’s being examined under a microscope—and he can’t help but twist his fingers together and clutch at his bag unconsciously.

“You have a request,” his father states, after a minute of scrutiny.

Tristram nods. “My friend, Emily, invited me to go over to her house on Saturday afternoon. May I go?” He holds his breath and tries to stay calm.

His father stares at him for a very long time and, with each passing second, Tristram feels his heart flutter in his chest harder and more wildly. “I would like to meet your friend and her father,” he says suddenly, and Tristram isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “I need more data.”

Tristram gulps shakily. “For the case?”

“Mmm, yes,” his father answers, looking thoughtful. “It’s more interesting than I had thought it would be.”

“Really?” Tristram is so relieved and happy. If he thinks the case is interesting, then perhaps he’ll think Emily and her dad are interesting—because they are, they’re _fascinating_ —and then he’s sure to be allowed to go on Saturday.

Unsurprisingly, his father doesn’t answer that question. Instead, he says, “Tomorrow I’ll come to pick you up from school. After I’ve asked my questions, I’ll make my decision.”

Tristram’s still nervous, but there’s a bubble of hope in with all the twisting and writhing snakes, and he nods. “Okay.”

Of course, this means he’ll have to warn Emily. They’ll have to find a way to tell her dad that his father is looking into the case. He hopes Doctor Watson won’t be too upset, but Tristram is sure that once Doctor Watson meets his father and sees how brilliant he is, he’ll know that the case is in the best possible hands.

His father is looking at him, a small twitching at his lips. “You didn’t do your homework.”

There was no sense in denying it, so Tristram shakes his head. His father’s lips twitch more, and he huffs out a chuckle. “I thought that was one of your uncle’s rules.”

Tristram recognises the sound of amusement in his father’s voice, and he nods, smiling a small smile. “He said that we both needed a break from work, so I had my piano lesson and then dinner.”

“Hmm. You have tomorrow’s homework done, though,” he says, and then tilts his head to look thoughtfully at Tristram in much the same way that his uncle does, though he would never make the comparison out loud lest it completely ruin his father’s mood. Tristram doesn’t bother responding to his father because it’s not necessary.

“Well,” Tristram’s father says after a moment, standing up and moving towards the kitchen, “you can help me with an experiment I’m conducting. And before you ask,” he continues, as Tristram is about to climb the stairs to his room to put his things away, “I don’t have much to tell you about the case yet. That will have to wait.”

“Yes, Father,” Tristram answers, a bit disappointed, but he heads up to his room. He hopes Emily isn’t too let down about that. He’s never had to worry about such a thing before, and it’s just one more writhing snake amongst all the others that have taken up residence in his belly. Still, he gets to assist his father with an experiment, which makes up for not hearing all about the case, just a little.


	7. Chapter Seven

Tristram knows he shouldn’t, but he broods on the way to school and worries during morning lessons. He isn’t sure what to say to Emily when he sees her and there’s a part of him that frets over her reaction. She hasn’t proven herself to be especially emotional to this point, but he can’t help but worry that she’ll react badly. He understands it’s irrational—this fear over a reaction that doesn’t seem anything like the friend he’s grown to like so well—but he can’t help it.

So he broods. And worries.

He’s out of his seat almost as soon as Mrs Norris releases them for their midmorning break, out of the door like a shot and scanning the grounds for Emily.

He spots her leaving her classroom and starts to make his way over to her, but hesitates when he sees her walking with the same two girls from the day before. This time, though, they don’t look like they’re going to walk off and Tristram doesn’t know what to make of the fact that he’s not Emily’s only friend. He knows it shouldn’t bother him, but it’s a firm reminder that, if he screws this friendship up somehow, he’ll be the one to suffer.

That thought makes a cold, heavy weight drop into his stomach and it’s worse than the squirming sensation of nerves. This is dread and it makes him shiver.

But he has to talk to her right now—even if it’s just to say he has to talk to her later—so he squares his shoulders and approaches the three girls. He does his best to imitate his father, who always looks calm, cool, and collected, but he’s not sure he’s successful.

Emily turns just as he’s about to tap her on the shoulder and smiles. “Hey, Tris!” she says happily. Her friends turn around and look at him and he really hopes it’s not his imagination, but they don’t look nearly as friendly as Emily does.

“This is Olivia,” Emily says, pointing to the girl on his left, who has blonde hair and bright blue eyes, “and this is Alice,” she finishes, pointing to the girl on his right, who has fire-engine red hair and freckles all across her face. “This is my friend Tris,” she tells Olivia and Alice, and Tristram can’t help feeling the weight in his stomach lighten a bit at her words.

“Hello,” he says, shakily, his hands clenched together and his eyes darting at their faces, only to skitter away again.

The girl on the left—Olivia—merely nods at him, but Alice sends him a small smile and says, “Hey,” with a slight blush rising in her cheeks.

Tristram is so confused by how she’s looking at him that he stares at her for a long moment, until he realises that her face is turning as red as her hair and he returns his attention to Emily. He feels completely out of his depth and his instinct is to flee. “Er,” he says, his eyes darting back over to the other two girls nervously, as if he’s afraid they’re going to start calling him names in loud voices any second now, “I have to talk to you. At lunch.”

“Oh,” Emily says, looking at him in confusion. “About what?”

He bites his lip nervously, and glances at the other girls—Olivia is fiddling with a loose thread on her uniform, apparently not paying attention, while Alice is watching them with wide eyes. He gulps and looks back at Emily.

“What’d your dad say?” she asks, as if this is a more important question than the one she’s just asked and Tristram has failed to answer.

“That’s what I have to talk to you about,” Tristram says and subconsciously holds his breath, waiting for her reaction.

“Oh.” She frowns. “It isn’t bad, is it?”

He’s not at all sure how to answer that. “Er,” he hedges, shifting from one foot to the other, “he wants to talk to your dad.”

Emily’s face clears and she smiles. “Well, that’s not bad, right?”

Tristram shakes his head. His heart is racing and he can _feel_ Alice staring at him and he wants to go hide. “See you at lunch,” he blurts out and runs off.

When he gets to the boys’ bathroom, he finds it mercifully empty. He enters the stall at the end of the row, locks the door behind him, and takes deep, steadying breaths. It only occurs to him at that moment that maybe he should have said goodbye to Olivia and Alice. He has a vague notion that running off from someone without acknowledging them is rude, but he can’t remember who might have told him that, or when. He shrugs it off—it’s not important—and focuses on what is.

He still hasn’t worked out what he’s going to tell Emily.

*

Unlike the rest of the week—when the time between break and lunch seemed to drag on interminably—lunch comes upon him much too soon. He’s not at all ready for it because he still doesn’t know what to say.

He drags his feet putting his paper, pencils, and books into his bag, and then he hangs back in class to let Sebastian and his friends leave before he does. But he can’t avoid the inevitable any longer, so he exits the classroom and nearly runs into Emily, who’s waiting for him with an impatient look.

“Took you long enough,” she says, then grabs his wrist and drags him towards the cafeteria. It’s so much like what he’s come to expect from her that he relaxes a bit and even allows himself to hope that it won’t be as bad as he fears.

Once they both have their lunches and are sitting across from each other—alone, thankfully—she looks at him intently, not even bothering with her food. “Well?” she asks.

He bites his lip and fiddles with his fork, but he’s really not hungry. He takes a deep breath. “My father said he wants to talk to your dad about the case first, and then he’ll decide if I’m allowed to come over or not,” he mumbles quickly, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh,” she says, and Tristram dares a glance at her. She looks thoughtful, and a little confused, and possibly anxious. He’s relieved that she doesn’t appear to be angry or upset. “When?”

Tristram blinks in surprise. “What?”

“When does he want to talk to my dad?”

“After school.”

Emily nods and takes a bite of her food. Tristram’s still too nervous to eat. “Well,” she says, after swallowing, “we’ll just have to talk to my dad and tell him.” Tristram is shocked, because she doesn’t seem all that concerned, especially given that she’d told him that her dad got tetchy when her mum was mentioned.

“Do you think he’ll be angry?” Tristram can’t help but ask in a small voice.

“Don’t know,” she confesses, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter. We have to tell him.”

Tristram nods, because there’s no getting around that. For a moment he imagines what might happen if they don’t talk to Doctor Watson about this and he’s flooded with visions of Emily’s dad being furious and telling her that she can’t have him over and that she can’t be friends with him and calling him _and_ his father freaks and….

“Tris?” Emily’s voice breaks through, sounding concerned.

He swallows harshly, trying to control his breathing—which is rapid and shallow. “Sorry,” he gasps out, still trembling, but at least no longer caught up in nightmarish thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” she says, and there’s a note of determination in her voice. “It’s going to be fine.”

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, and tries to relax. After a long moment, he’s successful. He trusts her, because she’s his friend, and she sounds absolutely certain that it’s going to be all right.

For the first time that he can remember, he doesn’t need substantial evidence to believe someone other than his father and his uncle.

*

Before he knows it—and certainly before he’s ready—school is out and he’s standing outside, waiting for Emily, waiting for Doctor Watson, and waiting, most of all, for his father.

That sick, twisting feeling in his stomach has been steadily increasing all day, and it seems to be getting exponentially worse with every minute that’s passing. He wishes Emily would hurry up, because she has a knack for calming him down and he could really use that right now.

Instead, he takes deep breaths, tries to stand still, and inspects his surroundings in the way that his father has taught him.

The street is fairly busy, all manner of people walking up and down the pavement and cars driving past, but his eyes catch on a tall, thin teenager on the opposite side of the street, leaning against a wall and apparently listening to music. He’s wearing skinny jeans and an orange hoodie, with the hood pulled down to cover his face. Dark curls are peaking out from beneath the hood, but it’s the bottom half of the face—the lips and chin—that catch Tristram’s attention.

He knows, without a doubt, that it’s his father in disguise. Tristram has, over the course of the last year, got much better at picking his father out of a crowd, and the thought of being able to do so now, when he’s troubled and worried, makes him feel proud all of a sudden. He’s on the verge of waving discreetly at his father—his father must be in disguise for _some_ reason, and it wouldn’t do to call too much attention to him—when he’s pushed from behind and nearly falls flat on his face. The only thing that prevents such an occurrence is the hand grabbing at his collar.

“Well, if it isn’t the freak,” Tristram hears from behind him and his heart races. As if he weren’t stressed enough, now Sebastian and his friends have come to torment him. And in front of his father, too. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

Tristram struggles against the hands that are suddenly holding him, doing his best to use his sharp, bony elbows to break the hold. “Let me go!”

The other boys laugh. “Okay,” one of them says and then he’s shoved hard, again, and he’s falling forward, landing hard on his stomach. His bag hits him on his lower back and it hurts, he’s probably going to have a bruise there because he bruises easily.

It’s absolutely humiliating, and it gets worse when he struggles to get to his feet, his long limbs uncoordinated, the strap from his bag tangled around his arm. The other boys are still laughing and his face is hot—he’s sure it’s red in anger and embarrassment—and he’s never wanted to punch someone more in his life than Sebastian, with his ugly face and his cruel eyes.

The other boys taunt him about having a _girlfriend_ and being a _freak_ and a _loser_ as he regains his footing. He clenches his fists impotently, imagining punching them all in their ugly, twisted faces, when Sebastian steps forward, getting right in his face. The other boy is trying to intimidate him, even though he has to look up to stare Tristram in the eye.

“I’m gonna teach the freak a lesson,” he states to the other boys, and he grabs at Tristram’s collar and draws his hand back. Tristram, though, can read the tells in his jaw and his shoulder and he’s already got his arms up to block the punch, when he hears a voice that seems to stop them all cold.

“What’s going on here?”

Everyone freezes in place, though Tristram chances a glance behind him. He had known the voice was Doctor Watson’s, but when he sees the man before him, he almost doesn’t recognise him. Gone is the loving, playful father of his only friend; in his place is a man who looks like a sergeant major. He stands ramrod straight, his eyes are hard and cold, and Tristram knows real, true fear.

He’s absolutely commanding; everything about the way he stands and looks, about his voice, demands respect _or else_. Tristram gulps and tries to make himself smaller, feeling that he’s on the verge of getting told off in a way that he never has before and he’s absolutely terrified that the man in front of him will tell him that he’s not good enough to be friends with Emily.

That’s not what happens at all, though.

Instead, Doctor Watson stares hard at Sebastian and the other boys. “Let go of him,” he orders quietly, and Tristram is surprised when Sebastian immediately releases him. He drops his arms from the defensive position he had them in and rubs at his back.

He chances a glance at Sebastian and is secretly pleased to see that the other boy’s eyes are wide and fearful.

“Now,” Doctor Watson says, still in that quiet and commanding voice, “That’s enough of that. I’m sure your parents are looking for you. If not, I may have to talk to your teacher.”

Tristram marvels at how straightforward the man sounds—not a threat at all in the words, even if it lurks in his tone—and is more than a little smug when Sebastian and his friends take off running.

The smugness is short-lived, though, when he turns around and looks at Doctor Watson. That commanding and intimidating look and posture are gone and he looks exactly as he always looks when he comes to pick Emily up from school, very nice and unassuming.

“Are you all right?” he asks, looking concerned and Tristram blushes in shame. That’s the third time this week he’s been rescued and he’s not at all sure he likes it. On the one hand, he’s never had anyone _want_ to rescue him from bullies before, but on the other hand, there’s his pride. And the fact that it happened in front of his father doesn’t bear thinking about.

This is why Tristram doesn’t look around to see how much of that his father saw. Instead, he nods at Doctor Watson and straightens his bag on his shoulder.

Doctor Watson is looking at him with a look that Tristram can’t immediately identify—it looks like a cross between concern and pity, maybe, but there’s something else there that confuses Tristram to no end—when he hears Emily come running up, out of breath. “Sorry I’m late,” she says, breathing hard. “Did you tell him?” she asks Tristram, who shakes his head and avoids both their eyes.

“Tell me what?” Doctor Watson asks, sounding amused. He reaches over and ruffles Emily’s hair—Tristram notes this out of the corner of his eye, but he’s looking around, back at the spot his father was standing before. He’s not there now.

“Go on, Tris,” Emily says, sounding encouraging, but Tristram thinks maybe she’s just as anxious as he is.

He bites his lip and fidgets nervous. “My father,” he starts, and then hesitates. He clears his throat and looks at Doctor Watson’s crutch. “My father,” he tries again, in a small voice, “wants to talk to you.” He hesitates again, but he knows that Doctor Watson will get the wrong idea if he doesn’t explain. “He’s a detective,” he mumbles, chancing a glance up at Emily’s dad.


	8. Chapter Eight

The look on Doctor Watson’s face—confusion, followed swiftly by a tight, closed expression—sets Tristram’s heart racing in fear. This, this right here is what he was afraid of, and it now appears that he was exactly right to be afraid.

“Emily,” Doctor Watson says carefully, “what is this about?” Tristram doesn’t think he hears anger—not yet—but he gets the feeling that anger is on the backburner, ready to come to a boil if either of them says or does the wrong thing. He shudders, very worried.

He glances over at Emily, who looks almost as nervous as he feels, but her chin is raised and her eyes wide, guileless. “Tris’s dad investigates crimes, Daddy,” she says, “and Tris says he’s never been wrong. I just thought—”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Watson,” Tristram blurts out, unable to stand seeing his friend taking all of the heat for this. “It was my idea.” He stops and bites his lip, terrified at the thought of having Doctor Watson’s anger directed at him.

“We were talking one day,” Emily says, looking pleadingly up at her dad, “and I found out Tris doesn’t have a mum, either, and I asked if she was dead—”

“And I said she’s not--”

“So I told him about Mum--”

“And I thought that my father could look into it, since--”

“Tris says he’s always right--”

“It’s my fault, Doctor Watson, I just wanted to help,” Tristram finishes, miserably, his heart in his throat, his eyes darting around, unable to look at Emily’s dad.

There is a long moment of silence—too long, and Tristram is just on the verge of saying that he’ll ask his father to forget about it, before running away—and then Doctor Watson clears his throat. Tristram, despite himself, glances up.

He can tell that Doctor Watson is not at all happy with them—Tristram cringes at this—but he’s calm. For now, but Tristram is not sure how long that will last.

Doctor Watson takes a deep breath and looks at Tristram seriously. “I appreciate that you’re trying to help, Tris—that’s a good thing—but sometimes you should ask first.”

Tristram nods, but he can feel tears prickling his eyes, because he just _knew_ he’d get it wrong like he always seems to. He looks down and he wants to crawl into a hole and hide. He was only trying to _help_ ….

He hears Doctor Watson sigh again and feels him touch his shoulder briefly, and the gesture is so similar to his father’s that he starts, thinking his father has appeared out of nowhere. “Tris,” he says quietly, “do you really think your father would be able to tell me what happened?”

Tristram’s head snaps up and he looks at Doctor Watson eagerly, wonderingly. “Yes,” he says seriously, nodding his head in emphasis. “He’s never been wrong before.”

Doctor Watson looks unsure, and Tristram tries to think of something helpful to say, but he’s not sure what that might be.

“Indeed,” he hears the deep voice of his father behind him, along with an accompanying hand on his shoulder that is soothingly familiar.

Tristram cranes his head to look back at his father next to him, and he senses Doctor Watson start in surprise.

His father—dressed in his typical tailored suit, no sign of the disguise anywhere, though Tristram suspects it’s in the bag slung over his shoulder—has turned his intensely searching gaze on Doctor Watson and Emily. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says, offering his hand in introduction.

Doctor Watson stares at him for a second, then takes his hand and shakes it. “John Watson,” he says.

The two men shake hands briefly, and Tristram can’t help but feel that this moment is important, somehow. He’s never been in this position before, where his father meets the parent of one of his friends, and he suspects that it’s yet another first, another milestone in a week seemingly full of them. Despite all of the uncertainty and fear, he’s a little happy about that.

“Yes, I know,” his father says.

Doctor Watson doesn’t look surprised. “Your son asked you to...”

“Look into your wife’s murder, yes,” he finishes. “You were right, of course, to suspect that your wife’s death was not a mugging gone wrong,” he continues, seemingly unconcerned by the blank, tightly controlled look on the other man’s face. “It was obviously a hit.”

“What?” Doctor Watson sounds and looks horrified.

“Yes, someone wanted her dead,” his father muses.

Tristram watches in alarm as Doctor Watson straightens defensively. “If you think _I_ had—”

“No,” his father interrupts, sounding vaguely annoyed. “You clearly had nothing to do with it. It was someone else, which is why I need to ask you a few questions.”

This matter-of-fact declaration seems to momentarily disarm Doctor Watson. Tristram thinks he looks at a loss. He chances a look at Emily, who is staring at his father in fascination, which Tristram can only hope is a good thing.

“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Doctor Watson says firmly, having regained his wits about him. He doesn’t sound angry, only defensive. Tristram’s father stays silent, staring at Emily’s dad, and Tristram looks up at Doctor Watson to see that he’s staring back, looking curious despite himself. “But how do you know--”

“It’s quite simple,” his father interrupts. “You loved your wife, which is why you continue to wear your wedding ring and keep it clean, which also explains why you’re currently single and have been since your wife’s death. Also, having been a soldier, you are fiercely loyal and that—combined with being a doctor—indicates a strong moral compass. Unlikely to kill, unless there was some compelling moral reason. That you continue to live with your sister indicates stressed finances, meaning you have not benefitted financially from your wife’s death.”

Tristram smiles at his father, and then looks back at Doctor Watson eagerly. If he were the type of boy to open his mouth at this point, he would brag and say, ‘See?’ He’s not, though, but he has a feeling that his expression says it all.

“How could you _possibly_ know all of that?” Doctor Watson asks, sounding curious, annoyed, and flabbergasted.

His father’s lips twitch in amusement, his eyes completely focused on Doctor Watson. “You wouldn’t keep your wedding ring on if you were looking to be involved in another relationship and you haven’t remarried because—as I already mentioned—you and your daughter live with your sister. You hold yourself like a soldier—which also explains the limp—and Tristram already informed me that you are a doctor.”

“My limp?”

“Psychosomatic, I’m afraid, though you were injured there at some point, probably when you served in Afghanistan.”

“How could you possibly—”

Tristram’s father waves this question away. “It’s in the case file. IED, was it?”

Doctor Watson nods, staring unabashedly at his father who, Tristram thinks, is rather pleased by the scrutiny. Tristram is still not sure, though, that Doctor Watson really believes in his father. Maybe, he thinks, that’s too much to expect of someone who doesn’t know him, though Tristram can’t understand how people doubt his father when he is able to deduce so much from so little.

“But what makes you think,” Doctor Watson asks, after a moment, “the police were wrong?”

“The police are amateurs to have missed something so obvious. The hitman was a professional, certainly, but there are discrepancies. You saw the crime scene photos, Doctor Watson. She didn’t cry—obvious from the lack of tear tracks—which means that she didn’t have time to fear for her life. If this had been a proper mugging, the situation would have escalated and tear tracks would be statistically more likely.”

Doctor Watson stares at his father, his expression yet again confusing to Tristram, because it looks like he wants to praise and yell at his father all at the same time. His lips are thin and pressed together in a white line, but there’s a light in his eyes that Tristram thinks looks like awe or amazement.

“Furthermore,” his father continues, “cash and jewellery understandably taken, but no attempt to use the credit cards or mobile phone? That’s not a mugging.”

Doctor Watson is flexing the fingers of his left hand, almost as though he wants to punch something, and Tristram is nervous about that. He edges closer to his father, relaxing a bit when he feels his father’s long coat brush against his cheek. There is a tense silence, both men staring at each other, and Tristram looks at Emily helplessly. She glances up at her dad and tugs on his jacket, which seems to snap Doctor Watson out of the staring contest and he heaves a sigh.

“I could go on, of course, but an analysis of the spatter patterns might not be appropriate at the moment. Now, if I may?” his father asks.

Doctor Watson nods his head stiffly, but his voice is relatively calm when he says, “If you’re going to ask me who might have had it out for Mary then I’m afraid I can’t help you. Everyone who knew her liked her. She had no enemies that I knew of.”

“No, I gathered that much on my own,” his father says, and Doctor Watson gets a look that Tristram recognises from when he was intimidating Sebastian. He doesn’t say anything, though, merely allows his father to continue. “Do you have any enemies?”

“Me?” Doctor Watson looks startled, the tension in his shoulders and his jaw easing slightly in surprise. “I don’t think so.”

“Hmm,” his father steeples his fingers, pressing them to his lips in thought. Tristram is used to his father’s thinking pose and knows to keep his mouth shut, but Emily, apparently, takes the silence as an opportunity to speak.

“Do you go on chases?”

His father doesn’t seem to know he’s being addressed, so Tristram bites his lip. “Father?”

Blinking, his father glances down at him. “Hmm?”

“Emily wants to know if you go on chases,” he says quietly, glancing over at his friend, who is staring up at his father intently. Tristram knows this is an important question for him to answer properly.

His father glances down at Emily and studies her just as intently as she is him. “Yes, sometimes,” he says, after a moment’s consideration.

Tristram can see how much more interesting his father has become in her eyes. “Do bad guys shoot at you?”

“Emily,” Doctor Watson admonishes, but neither his father nor Emily seems to pay him much mind.

“Occasionally,” he answers.

Emily grins. “Brilliant.”

His father looks bemused for a moment, as though he cannot understand why she would deem what he does in such terms. Tristram, however, feels a swell of pride and—though he’s always looked up to his father—it feels fantastic that his friend thinks his father is brilliant.

“Your dad,” she says, turning to Tristram, “is so cool.”

Tristram beams at her and nods. “I know.”

He can tell, out of the corner of his eye, that his father looks very pleased and he thinks that Doctor Watson is amused and, perhaps, fond. He catches them glancing at each other, a knowing look that he’s seen passed between adults on a few occasions. He’s never quite worked out what it means, but he thinks it’s something adults must learn at some point and it makes them somehow different from children. While it usually irritates him, or frustrates him—because he wants to know what it means—in this case, it’s all right. He’s just glad that Doctor Watson no longer seems angry or upset.

“Tristram,” his father says after a short pause, “you may go to your friend’s tomorrow, if you still want to and the invitation remains open.”

Tristram looks hopefully at Doctor Watson, who smiles at him. “You’re still welcome, of course.”

He’s so happy he almost jumps up and down. His father wouldn’t appreciate that, he’s sure, so he tries to convey his utter happiness through smiling at everyone. Emily, however, has no such restraint.

“Yes! You’ll see, Tris, it’ll be brilliant. I’ve got loads of music for us to listen to, and we can play a game or watch telly or something,” she says rapidly, and Tristram wishes it were already tomorrow.

“Emily,” her dad says, sounding like he wants to laugh, “calm down, sweetheart. He can come after lunch. Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara will be there to watch you, though, because I have to go to Aunt Claire’s house to help her move, remember?”

“Yeah,” she says carelessly. “You told me yesterday.”

“As long as that’s not a problem?” Doctor Watson asks, directing the question at Tristram’s father. Tristram looks at his father pleadingly, but he’s looking intently at Doctor Watson.

“Of course not,” he murmurs in response.

Doctor Watson nods, staring back at Tristram’s father. “Great.”

There’s a very long pause and the air suddenly seems heavier, or maybe full of tension—though Tristram doesn’t understand why, because it seems to have come out of nowhere. He looks over at Emily, and she’s looking between the two men with a frown on her face. Tristram wonders if he should be worried. He can’t read Doctor Watson very well, but he doesn’t sense that his father is upset or unhappy. He merely seems curious and intense, which is how he almost always seems to Tristram.

Doctor Watson breaks the staring contest first to look at Tristram with a small smile on his face. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Tris.”

Tristram smiles shyly back. “Okay,” he says happily.

“Come on, Emily,” her dad says, taking her hand. He glances at Tristram’s father. “Nice to have met you,” he says politely, but Tristram notes that there’s an intensity to his voice that he doesn’t understand and can’t identify.

“Likewise,” his father answers, a hint of tension in his voice as well, and he places a hand on Tristram’s shoulder.

“See you,” Tristram says to Emily and she beams back at him.

“See you.”

He watches them walk away, and he notices that his father is staring at them intently, still. He’s even more confused when he sees Doctor Watson glance at them once more when he turns the corner and disappears.

Tristram looks up at his father, who glances down at him. “Come along, Tristram,” he says and he sounds like he always does. Tristram follows along contently, and he has no room in his thoughts for mysterious looks and tones of voice, instead dwelling happily on thoughts of going over to his friend’s house and playing games and listening to new music.

He can’t wait for tomorrow.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortish chapter here, but the next one is on the long side. That one will be posted tomorrow. Also, many thanks to [speep](http://speep.livejournal.com/) for the magnificent fanart in this chapter.

Tristram wakes well before his usual hour on Saturday morning, much too excited to go back to sleep, but knowing that it’s also much too early to go downstairs for breakfast. His father may be awake—it’s difficult to tell, since his father often moves silently about the flat—so Tristram lays in bed and attempts to calm his racing heart as he stares at the ceiling. He’s so excited to go over to Emily’s house that it’s all he can focus on, so gives up after fifteen minutes and practically bounds downstairs to the kitchen.

Not unexpectedly, his father is laying on the sofa, still in his dressing gown, his violin laying on his chest and stomach. He’s not playing it or plucking it, merely holding it and occasionally stroking his fingers lightly over the strings. If Tristram didn’t already know that his father never did anything absent-mindedly, he’d suspect that his father wasn’t even aware of his actions. He knows that’s a silly notion, though, as his father is always aware of what he does and the world around him. His father proves this thought right when he greets Tristram without turning to look at him.

“Good morning, Father,” Tristram says as he carefully opens the refrigerator to retrieve the jam for his toast.

His father resumes stroking his fingers lightly over his violin while Tristram makes his customary toast with jam and tea. Tristram makes some for his father, though he’s not certain he’ll eat any of the toast; technically, his father _is_ on a case, even if it’s not one the police requested his help on, but he makes it anyway, just in case.

After breakfast, he clears his dishes away and moves upstairs to get ready for his day, his excitement adding a bounce to his step and making him move just that tiny bit faster, especially given how early it is in the morning.

He’s done much too soon, however, and fills the time by checking in on his father, who appears to be preoccupied with Emily’s Mum’s case. Since he has loads of time, he returns to his room to read more of his book. He’s almost done and he really wants to finish it before they go. He can’t wait to find out what Emily thinks of it.

*

Finally, after what seems like an agonisingly long morning, his father dons his coat, helps Tristram with his, and the two set off to go to Emily’s.

It’s a brisk morning, but Emily lives all the way in Highbury, so they’ll have to take a cab. His father flings his arm out and—as if summoned by magic—a cab pulls to a stop in front of them. Once they’re inside, Tristram twists his fingers together in his lap, alternately excited and nervous. His father had said that Doctor Watson and Emily lived with Emily’s aunt—whom Tristram’s never met—and he’s concerned about whether she’ll like him or not. Then again, Doctor Watson and Emily are both incredibly nice, friendly people, and Tristram can’t imagine anyone related to them not being the same way.

He attempts to content himself with the idea that it will be fine—more than fine, really, probably actually brilliant—but the closer they get to Emily’s, the more the nerves start overtaking his anticipating.

By the time they finally get there—to Tristram it seems to take forever, but he knows it really only takes about twenty minutes—he’s almost vibrating in a combination of nerves and excitement. He does his best to stay still while he waits for his father to knock on the door and for someone to open it, and is only calmed when his father places a brief, steadying hand on his shoulder.

The door, after what seems an interminable wait—Tristram had begun to wonder frantically if they had the wrong address—the door is opened by a woman. She looks much like Doctor Watson—short and stocky, with short, light brown hair—but there are some noticeable differences. She’s a bit older, and her eyes are darker and her features a little finer. Her face is just as wrinkled, though, but in a different way; where Tristram thinks Doctor Watson’s face look friendly, he thinks this woman’s face looks worn and weary, as if she’s constantly tired.

They stare at each other for a moment—Tristram subconsciously backing up half a step until his head and back are resting against his father’s leg—and then she smiles. “You must be Tristram,” she says, and her voice is almost as warm as Doctor Watson’s and sounds very similar. “I’m Emily’s Aunt Harry,” she says, holding out her hand.

Tristram bites his lip and glances up at his father, who is looking down at him with a small, indulgent smile. He glances back at Emily’s aunt and nods. “Hi,” he says quietly.

Emily’s Aunt Harry is still smiling at him, but he thinks it looks more amused than friendly. He chews slightly on his lower lip, and if it weren’t for the fact that he’s been looking forward to coming over to play with Emily for two days, he would hide behind his father until they could leave.

His father takes Harry’s still outstretched hand and nods at her. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says, not adding that he’s Tristram’s father—as others might do—because he feels it should be obvious.

“Harry Watson,” she says as she shakes his hand, then steps aside for them to come in. Tristram lets his father take the lead and follows closely behind, glancing around for a glimpse of Emily.

What he sees instead is a small entrance area with stairs leading up to a sitting room. The room is small and narrow, tastefully decorated without a single thing out of place. Tristram feels it’s almost cold; he is so used to the clutter at home, that walking into the sitting room is like walking into an exhibit at the National Gallery. The walls are a beige colour, with white accents and parquet floors. He doesn’t even want to touch anything, afraid of knocking something over and ruining the entire look of the place, so he sticks close to his father.

“Tris!” he hears, thankfully, and Emily runs towards him, barely stopping short of knocking him over. He’s quickly becoming used to her enthusiasm and he has already found himself wishing he could run about like she does.

“Hi, Emily,” he says in his much quieter voice, smiling at her.

She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, clearly as excited to have him over as he is to be there, but she’s more comfortable showing it than he is—especially with his father there. “It’s going to be so fun, Tris,” she says happily. “We can listen to music and play Wizards, and--”

“Wizards?” he asks, interested.

“Yeah,” she nods with a big smile on her face. “Come on,” she says, tugging on his arm and leading him in the direction of another set of stairs that leads to the second floor.

Tristram glances up at his father, who still has that slightly amused smile on his face. “I will return for you at 6:30,” he tells Tristram, placing a hand on Tristram’s shoulder and nodding to Harry who smiles at them.

“That should be fine. John’ll be back then.”

For a brief moment, Tristram feels his father’s hand squeeze his shoulder unexpectedly, but then his father moves his hand away and nods to him, before showing himself out of the flat. Though he didn’t say it, Tristram knows that his father hopes he has fun.

He turns to Emily, who beams. “Come on,” she says again, grabbing his arm and leading him up the stairs to his room. “I’ll tell you how to play.”

*

Twenty minutes later, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley have taken cover behind the sofa in the sitting room—which is currently playing the role of the Chamber of Secrets—and are plotting the best way to kill Voldemort and rescue Ginny.

Emily has explained that the game is a re-enactment of the climax from the second Harry Potter book, with a few exceptions. For starters, Voldemort is being played by Leopold, her Aunt Harry’s cat. He is black and, according to Emily, has an evil streak a mile wide, but he’s also fat and old. He’s currently sitting regally on a chair in the sitting room. The role of Ginny is being played by one of Emily’s dolls—an old Barbie that she no longer plays with. Unfortunately, the doll doesn’t have red hair, but Emily pointed out that Tristram doesn’t, either, and he’s playing Ron.

Tristram had his choice of playing either Ron or Hermione, but that was an easy decision. He wasn’t going to play a girl, even if she was smarter, and besides, she’d been Petrified in the book and so he’d decided that Ron was the more sensible choice. Emily was obviously going to be Harry—Tristram didn’t even argue, because she would make a much better Harry than he would—and all that was left to do was to put the Barbie with Leopold in the chair and go back upstairs to begin the game.

It was tricky—Voldemort had watched them sneak down the stairs and dart behind the sofa—but they had made it into the Chamber alive and were now deciding upon the best way to save Ginny and defeat Voldemort.

Emily—as Harry—thinks a frontal assault is best, but Tristram, as Ron, argues that a better strategy is to attack from two different sides of the sofa and not allow Voldemort to get a good shot at either of them.

“Well,” Emily whispers, clutching a paintbrush that is doubling as her wand in one hand, while the other holds a ball of yarn, “you’re better at strategy than me, so we’ll do what you said.”

Tristram nods, clutching his own paintbrush. “Okay,” he whispers. He motions her to move to one end of the sofa while he moves to the other. He glances quickly around the side and sees that Voldemort is licking his paws, his eyes shut, and purring contentedly.

He backs quickly away from the edge and scoots over to Emily’s side to whisper, “He’s distracted. On the count of three, you jump out from your side and I’ll jump out from mine and attack him at the same time.”

She nods in acknowledgement, and whispers, “What spell are you going to use?”

He bites his lip in thought, and then finally answers, “Wingardium Leviosa. That should distract him enough.”

Emily nods. “Okay. I’m going to use Expelliarmus. But watch out for the basilisk.”

Tristram nods and then moves back over to his side of the sofa. He looks over at Emily and nods to her, then puts up his fingers, counting to three.

Emily jumps out from her side with a loud, “Expelliarmus!” at the same time that Tristram jumps out, points his wand at Voldemort, and yells, “Wingardium Leviosa!”

Voldemort’s eyes pop open and he hisses in surprise and disdain at them, his hackles raised.

“Watch out!” Emily cries at him. “He’s using the killing curse!”

Tristram crouches down and rolls to the side slightly. “I’m okay,” he says back to her, eyes still on Voldemort. “He missed.”

“Be careful,” Emily answers, dodging and weaving between chairs and the coffee table, moving closer to where Voldemort is sitting, still hissing quietly.

He nods, and points his wand at the enemy again. “Tarantallegra!”

“Good one!” Emily says, and then darts closer to Voldemort. “Rictusempra!”

Voldemort narrows his eyes at her and, because she’s got close, he takes a swipe at her. She manages to duck out of the way, though, and Tristram moves closer. He can see Ginny propped up behind Voldemort and aims his wand again. “Immobulus,” he calls, and—when Voldemort is too distracted by the ball of yarn that Emily has suddenly dangled in his face, he reaches out and snatches her. “Got her!” he says happily, then retreats to the sofa, holding the doll up in triumph.

“Yes!” Emily shouts, bounding over to him to ruffle his hair and hug him.

Tristram goes still momentarily, shocked at being hugged, but then he tentatively hugs her back. She allows him to hug her for a second before pulling away to taunt Voldemort, who hisses back at her and then ignores them in favour of licking his paw to clean behind his ears.

Just at their moment of triumph, Emily’s Aunt Harry sticks her head into the sitting room with a smile. “So, Harry and Ron have rescued Ginny?”

“Yes,” they answer in unison, beaming. Tristram holds up the doll to show her.

She grins. “Well, I think that calls for a victory snack. I have apple slices for you both.” And with a wink, she heads back into the kitchen.

Emily turns to Tristram and grins. “She’ll give us biscuits if we ask nicely.”

Tristram beams and follows her to the kitchen. “Brilliant.”


	10. Chapter Ten

After their snack—which does include biscuits, as Emily had predicated—Emily tells him that she’s going to play him some songs by the Beatles.

“They’re my dad’s favourites,” she confides as she digs through Doctor Watson’s CD collection.

“Do you like them, too?”

Emily smiles at him and nods. “Got it,” she says and waves a brightly coloured jewel case in his direction. Tristram barely gets a glance at it before she’s racing ahead of him, up the stairs to her room, and he has to hurry to follow. He’s very glad for his longer legs as he catches her up at the doorway to her room.

He hesitates briefly, wondering if it wouldn’t be right to shove her out of the way because she’s a girl and he should be nice to girls, right? But that brief moment of hesitation is all the advantage Emily needs and she’s pushing him out of the way, racing through the door, and launching herself onto her bed.

Tristram pouts at her slightly and is sorely tempted to point out that she cheated, but she’s already talking. “Come on, Tris,” she says, beckoning him closer as she jumps off her bed to go over to a portable stereo that looks older than he is.

He moves into her room and gingerly seats himself at the edge of her bed. The sheer amount of stuff that’s crowded into every corner and bit of space in the room is interesting and a pleasant surprise; he had been expecting it to be as neat as the rest of the flat, but it’s much more homely and comforting.

The walls are white, but there is a wallpaper border where the wall meets the ceiling, decorated with white and pink flowers—something that Tristram doesn’t think Emily would have picked for herself—and when he’d asked about it upon first seeing it, Emily had made a face and said that her Aunt Clara had chosen it.

“I told Dad that I want something different, but he said we might move soon, so I’ll just have to live with it for now,” she’d added, her face still twisted up as though she’d sucked on a lemon.

Tristram felt his stomach drop at her words because he didn’t _want_ her to move, because then she might go to a different school and he’d lose his friend, but she’d taken one look at his face and smiled at him.

“No, not away,” she’d clarified, in answer to his unspoken question. “Just out of Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara’s flat.”

“Oh,” he’d said, unspeakably relieved. The thought of Emily moving away fills him with dread.

Besides, apart from the wallpaper, he likes Emily’s room. There are books everywhere, and toys, too—some dolls, but also some Legos and K’Nex—and fun looking games, like Guess Who and Junior Scrabble. He’s never played with any of these things and his fingers are itching to touch and inspect, but he suspects it would be rude to play with someone else’s toys without permission. “Dad says this is their best album,” Emily announces, and his attention snaps back to her. “But I like _A Hard Day’s Night_ best.”

Tristram is completely lost, but then he hears the first sounds coming out of the stereo—it sounds like an orchestra readying itself in front of an audience. For a brief minute, he thinks it won’t be so different to what he’s used to—but then he hears a completely different sound, heavy drums and a guitar, and then a voice singing in English, and he’s mesmerised.

It’s nothing like the classical music he hears at home, or the opera that Uncle Mycroft occasionally listens to. It’s not the same at all, really—though there are hints of familiarity, like the orchestra lurking in the background—but he likes it. He likes it a lot, especially the beat, which is regular and predictable and makes him want to bob his head up and down in time.

Tristram sees Emily out of the corner of his eye mouthing along with the words, her head bobbing slightly, and he turns to her and grins.

And then suddenly—much sooner than he’s expecting—the song changes and a man sings about friends helping him and Tristram thinks _this_ song is going to be his favourite, because he can finally identify with having friends. He doesn’t really understand all the words—what they mean, what the men singing are trying to say—but it doesn’t matter because just being here, listening to it with Emily gives him a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Then the next song plays—a really pretty one with a harp—and he thinks that maybe _this_ one is his favourite, because it’s much closer to what he’s familiar with and it’s very nice. A soft break amongst all the faster, brighter songs.

But wait. Then he hears a song that sounds mystical and soothing and he’s lost in the sound of it, music unlike anything he’s ever heard before, and then after that is a song like something from a carnival. They all sound so different, but one flows into the next, flows into the next and it all works together, like how completely different soils can come from different places in London and still be similar and go together because they’re part of something larger.

And he finds himself thinking that again when the CD nears the end and he hears the first song over again—or, at least, it’s almost the first song again—and he thinks it’s over, but then the cheering fades into the strumming of a guitar and a piano accompanying it.

He doesn’t really understand the words, but he feels the song is sad somehow and also building. Tristram doesn’t know what the song is building towards, but it feels important.

At first, when he hears an entire orchestra of instruments hitting various notes—seemingly not together at all—he winces because it feels cacophonous and ugly, but it’s gone before he can give it much thought and the song sounds more cheerful.

But it’s temporary, and then the orchestra makes those noises again—it’s less ugly this time, though, and it just sounds big and important, like a wave growing taller and taller and threatening to crash over your head. And then it does and Tristram thinks back to the day before, when his father met Doctor Watson and how important that seemed and this feels sort of like that, but in a different way. The music and the ugly sounds of each instrument in an orchestra tuning up independently should not work, but it does, in much the same way that he and Emily probably shouldn’t be friends, but are. It’s beautiful because it’s so strange, and the thought takes his breath away.

He loves this, loves his friend for giving him this feeling.

Emily jumps up to turn the stereo off when it’s over and then she turns and smiles at him. “Did you like it?”

Tristram is not sure how to put his thoughts into words, so he nods. “Yeah.”

“Me, too,” she says simply.

“Is it all like that?” he asks, and he’s not even sure if he just means these Beatles, or if he means this whole world of music that he’s never been introduced to before. He can’t, for the life of him, work out why his father and his uncle don’t like it. It’s breathtaking and completely unpredictable. What’s not to like about that?

Emily shrugs. “It’s all different. You want to hear another one?”

“Yes, please,” he says eagerly, smiling at her.

She laughs and tugs at his arm, something that is quickly becoming a habit and something that he is quickly becoming accustomed to. “You have to hear the Beethoven song.”

“Okay,” he answers, following her down the stairs to where Doctor Watson’s CD collection is.

*

They’re just reaching the bottom of the stairs when he hears the front door shut and feet ascending the stairs from the ground floor up to the sitting room.

“Daddy!” Emily cries as she sees Doctor Watson climb up to the top of the stairs slowly. She goes running over to him and stops short of bowling him over—as Tristram has seen her do with him—and throws her arms around him.

He smiles at her and leans down to wrap his arms around her also. “I have a surprise for you,” he says as he kisses her on the top of her head.

Just then, as Tristram is wondering what he’s talking about, he sees a woman step into the sitting room and smile at Emily. “Hi, Ems! How’s my favourite niece?”

Emily laughs and releases her dad to bound over to this stranger and hug her. “Aunt Claire,” she giggles, “I’m your _only_ niece!”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not my favourite,” she says, laughing as she pulls away.

Emily’s Aunt Claire is short and curvy, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Tristram thinks she’s very pretty and she looks nice, too, but he hangs back, always nervous with new people. Emily, he thinks, might be the only exception to that rule.

Emily grabs her arm and drags her over to where Tristram is standing, much to his surprise. “Aunt Claire, this is Tris. Tris, this is Aunt Claire.”

She smiles down at him with almost the sweetest smile he’s ever seen. “Nice to meet you, Tris.”

Tristram bites his lip and glances up at her briefly before looking down at the floor. “Hello,” he says quietly.

Doctor Watson limps over to them and, though Tristram can’t see his face, he thinks Emily’s dad’s voice is fond when he says, “Tris and Emily go to school together.”

“Yeah,” Emily says enthusiastically, “but he’s in the year below me.” Tristram risks a glance up and sees that the adults look amused while Emily looks smug. He makes a face at her and she wrinkles her nose at him like she’s going to laugh. “What? It’s true.”

“So?” he grumbles, and then glares again when she sticks her tongue good-naturedly out at him and ruffles his hair. Truth be told, he thinks the way she treats him is thrilling, because he’s never had anyone be so nice while they were teasing him.

“Did you two have fun today?” Doctor Watson asks them, and Tristram forgets all about being nervous around new people as he and Emily take it in turns to explain just what they did.

“We played Wizards, and I was Harry--”

“And I was Ron--”

“Yeah, and we rescued Ginny from the Chamber of Secrets. Well, Tris did--”

“Emily kept Voldemort busy with yarn--”

“And then Aunt Harry gave us a snack--”

“Apple slices and--”

“And then,” Emily says with a Look at Tristram, “we went to my room and listened to the Beatles and Tris liked it.”

Tristram shuts his mouth and nods.

Both Doctor Watson and Emily’s Aunt Claire look like they want to laugh. “Which album did you listen to?” Doctor Watson asks, after a moment.

Tristram looks over at Emily for the answer, since she never really told him what it was called.

“Sgt Pepper,” she says promptly and smiles when her dad grins at her.

“Good choice,” he says, tugging playfully on her hair. He turns and smiles at Tristram. “Are you staying for dinner, Tris?”

He bites his lip and glances at Emily, then back to Doctor Watson and shrugs. “My father said he was going to come to pick me up at 6:30.”

Doctor Watson smiles in a friendly way at him, and then checks his watch. “It’s nearly five now and I’m starving. Is anyone else hungry?”

“I am!” Emily says immediately, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“I’m hungry also, John,” Emily’s Aunt Claire says.

“Are you hungry, Tris?” Emily asks, and Tristram nods. His stomach has been growling ever since the last song of the CD she’d played for him, but he wasn’t sure he should say anything. The etiquette of being hungry at a friend’s house was not something anyone had ever taught him before.

Emily looks back at her dad, her eyes wide and pleading. “Can we have Chinese, Dad? Please?”

“That place down the road does a nice Chinese takeaway, doesn’t it?”

Doctor Watson glances at Emily’s Aunt Claire, nods, and then looks at Tristram. “Do you fancy a Chinese, Tris?”

“Yes, Doctor Watson,” he answers. Tristram thinks for a second that Doctor Watson reaches towards him to pat his shoulder, maybe, or ruffle his hair like he does with Emily, but he stops himself. Tristram is surprised to discover that he wouldn’t have minded if Doctor Watson had ruffled his hair. He’s got used to Emily doing it and it isn’t as bad as when the bullies used to in previous years.

“Shall I go ask Harry and Clara if they’re interested?” Doctor Watson asks the room at large, before he leaves to poke his head into the kitchen.

Emily’s Aunt Claire smiles kindly at him. “Do you like the Beatles?” she asks Tristram and he bites his lip and nods his head.

“It’s the first time he ever heard them,” Emily supplies. “He’d never even heard of them before,” she says, in a tone of voice that expresses her astonishment.

“Really?” Emily’s Aunt Claire asks, sounding astonished herself.

Tristram nods. “My father doesn’t listen to music like that,” he says softly.

“Oh? What kind of music does your father like?”

“Classical,” Tristram answers. “He plays the violin.”

“Wow.” She looks impressed and Tristram can’t help but be proud of his father, who he doesn’t think gets the praise he often deserves and doesn’t understand why. “Does he play professionally?”

He shakes his head. “He’s a detective,” he says, a little more assuredly, because his father is very good at it.

“He is?” she asks him, smiling.

“Yeah,” Emily says before Tristram can. “And he’s never been wrong on a case, huh, Tris?” she asks quickly, and doesn’t even give him a chance to say anything before adding, “Tris’s dad is investigating Mum’s death and he already knows more than the police, right?”

Tristram nods confidently, though he doesn’t think Emily’s Aunt Claire looks all that impressed. It’s more that she looks sad, and she opens her mouth to say something, but Doctor Watson returns. “Everyone wants Chinese. So tell me what you’d like.”

“Daddy, what’s a hit?” Emily asks suddenly.

Tristram watches interestedly as Doctor Watson’s lips thin and he gets that hard look to his eyes, while Emily’s Aunt Claire goes pale and her eyes suddenly seem huge.

“Emily,” he says, tiredly, “now’s not the time--”

“Dad, I want to _know_ ,” Emily interrupts, looking stubborn.

Tristram, despite a feeling that it’s not good, wants to know, too. He’d wanted to ask his father, but was unsure if he should.

Doctor Watson looks between them, and then glances at Emily’s Aunt Claire, who’s shaking and very, very pale. He sends a quelling look at Emily—who pouts—and then turns to the woman, who looks as though she’s going to be ill.

“John,” she says weakly, clutching at him, “what does she mean? I thought it was a mugging.”

Doctor Watson sighs and shakes his head, but he pulls her into a hug. “You know I’ve always thought the police were wrong…”

Emily’s Aunt Claire pulls away from him to look him in the eyes. Tristram wonders if they’ve forgotten they have an audience. “I know, but they’re professionals! They do this all the time, it’s their job.” She looks deeply troubled, near hysterical, as though her world is threatening to come down around her ears. “Who would want to hurt Mary? Everyone loved her,” she whispers, sadly, and she leans back into him, her eyes closed and her breathing laboured. Tristram looks over questioningly at Emily, who looks put out that no one has explained what being hit means.

“Sherlock thinks that--”

“Sherlock?”

“Tris’s father,” Doctor Watson clarifies. “He’s a detective and he says he’s found evidence that it wasn’t a mugging at all…” he trails off, looking confused because Emily’s Aunt Claire has turned away to look over at Tristram. Tristram, not expecting the attention, bites his lip nervously. He hates it when people pay attention to him when they look as unhappy as this woman looks right now. She looks miserable, in fact, or scared, or sad. He’s not entirely sure, but he worries, for a moment, that she blames him for her feelings.

The moment passes, though, and she turns back to Doctor Watson and sighs, resting her head on his shoulder. “Mary would’ve wanted us to move on and not dwell on…” she takes a deep breath, her voice wavering slightly, “she would’ve wanted us not to forget to live,” she finishes gently, as she pulls Doctor Watson closer.

Doctor Watson closes his eyes, looking sick, as if the mere mention of Emily’s mum is a physical blow to the stomach. “Claire,” he begins, sounding pained, but she cuts him off.

“I know.” She shudders a bit and takes a deep breath, as if to calm herself, and pulls away. “I’m sorry. I’ll just…” she trails off, her voice shaking. Her hands flutter as if she doesn’t know what to do with them, halfway between trying to pat at her hair and pointing in the direction of the bathroom. “Sorry,” she whispers, quietly, and nearly runs out of the room.

Doctor Watson watches her go, and then sighs and turns back to Emily.

“Will you tell me what a hit is now?”

“Emily,” her dad says sternly, “later.”

Emily looks mutinous for a moment, and then sighs as though she’s been put upon. “ _Fine_.” She crosses her arms to make her point, and Tristram worries at his lip, feeling as though he’s witnessed something he shouldn’t have, though he can’t for the life of him work out why.

*

Dinner is a quiet affair. Doctor Watson appears to be lost in thought—sad ones, Tristram thinks—and seems to have tuned everyone at the table out. Emily’s Aunt Claire is behaving much the same, though she keeps glancing at Doctor Watson with a troubled look on her face. Emily’s Aunt Harry and her Aunt Clara talk amongst themselves about some show called Strictly that Tristram has never heard of before, and he and Emily discuss the games they’re going to play the next time they hang out.

“You should come over next week,” Emily is saying as she is munching on Chicken Kung Po. “We can play Wizards again, only this time we can get the Philosopher’s Stone from Voldemort. Or we can listen to more music.”

Tristram thinks this sounds brilliant and tells her so, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to invite her over to his house, but he stops himself. He’s not sure at all what his father would think about that, or even if he’d allow Tristram to have a friend over. He decides that he’ll ask his father when they’re on their way home and if his father says it’s okay, he’ll ask Emily about it on Monday.

He and Emily help her aunts clear the table after dinner and they finish just as Doctor Watson is walking Emily’s Aunt Claire to the door.

“I’ll call you this week, make sure you’re getting settled in,” he hears Doctor Watson say to her as they stand on the ground floor by the door.

“Thank you,” she answers and there’s a long silence that’s broken suddenly by a knock at the door. Tristram knows it’s his father because he recognises that knock. He heads over to the top of the stairs in time to see Doctor Watson pull the door open.

“Mr Holmes,” he greets politely, his arm extended.

Tristram sees his father take Doctor Watson’s hand with a twitch of the lips. “Call me Sherlock, please, Doctor Watson.”

Doctor Watson smiles in return and shakes his hand, letting go after a minute. “John.”

His father smiles. “John.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, before Emily’s Aunt Claire speaks. “John, I’ll talk to you later.” Tristram thinks she sounds different, somehow, though he can’t see her face from this angle. She sounds upset, but not like she was upset before. This seems to be a different kind of upset.

There’s a short delay, but Tristram sees Doctor Watson look away from his father to glance at her. “Sorry? Oh, right,” he says, smiling at her and giving her a hug. “Have a safe trip home.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs as she turns to face him and Tristram can see her in profile for a moment. She’s smiling fondly at Doctor Watson before she leans forward to give him a peck on the cheek. “Goodbye.”

Tristram watches her turn her head and brush past his father without acknowledged him, which Tristram thinks is odd because he thought she was very nice and polite before. His father’s eyes flick over her in that way he has, and then he turns and walks in, catching sight of Tristram at the top of the stairs. He smiles briefly in greeting, and then turns to Doctor Watson. “Your sister-in-law.”

Doctor Watson lets out a little laugh; Tristram thinks it’s out of surprise. “How could you possibly know that? She didn’t say a word to you.”

“She’s not your sister or your sister’s wife because she’s leaving and you told her to be safe going home,” his father explains, his lips twitching smugly. “You aren’t dating, but you’re obviously close to her, and your wife had a sister. Obvious.”

“Is it?” Tristram thinks Doctor Watson sounds impressed.

“Yes,” his father answers, brushing past him to climb the stairs. Doctor Watson stares after him for a moment—an unreadable look on his face—before he following.

“Father,” Tristram says in greeting, moving close to him. They don’t hug, but his father puts both hands on his shoulders and looks down at him.

“You had fun,” he states with a smile.

Tristram nods. “Mr Holmes!” Emily says loudly and happily, rushing over and beaming at his father. Tristram can’t help smiling widely, her enthusiasm catching.

“Tris and I had so much fun,” she says, and Tristram thinks his father looks slightly overwhelmed, but also pleased.

“I’m very glad to hear it,” his father answers carefully, glancing back at Doctor Watson, who smirks at him.

“You’ve missed dinner,” he says.

Tristram’s father takes his hands off of his shoulders to turn and face Doctor Watson. “Have I?”

“Hmm,” he answers with a nod, still smirking. “Chinese.”

“Ah, my favourite,” his father answers and they’re staring at each other again.

Tristram doesn’t understand what is going on, but it feels like there’s something happening and he has no idea what it is. Emily looks just as confused as he is—her nose wrinkled in a frown—but her Aunt Harry looks like she wants to laugh. She keeps poking her wife , who’s hiding her mouth behind her hand, in the side.

“You’ll just have to come earlier next time,” Doctor Watson says after a very long pause, eyes still locked on his father, and Tristram is even more confused because his father doesn’t even eat on cases anyway.

“When might that be?” his father asks almost before Doctor Watson has finished speaking.

“Wednesday,” Doctor Watson answers just as quickly. “We were going to have a family dinner, but--”

“Tristram and I would be happy to attend, wouldn’t we?” his father interrupts smoothly, without turning his head or moving his eyes.

“Yeah,” he answers, because it’s the truth. Maybe his father thinks the case will be over by then and he might actually be hungry enough to eat.

“Great,” Doctor Watson murmurs. “Half six?”

“Yes.”

There is a very long pause again as they both stare at each other, and Tristram wonders who is going to look away first. He thinks it’ll probably be Doctor Watson because his father never loses staring contests.

“Mr Holmes,” Emily says after the air in the room has got thick and heavy and confusing, “what’s a hit?”

Doctor Watson blinks and looks at her, whatever was happening vanished as though by magic. “Emily! I said--”

“But Daddy! That was earlier!”

Doctor Watson sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose before moving over to her and pulling her to the side to speak quietly. From the looks of things, she’s getting scolded and Tristram winces in sympathy. He’s been scolded before—by his father and his uncle—and it was so bad he never wanted it to happen again.

He looks up at his father, who is still staring at Doctor Watson and Emily, but he seems to know that Tristram is looking at him because he glances down.

“Father?”

“Yes.”

“Can Emily come over to our flat sometime?”

His father looks at him intently, and then glances over at Doctor Watson and Emily, who are hugging now. “Yes,” he says slowly, as though he’s thinking through a complicated puzzle. He looks back down at Tristram again. “We’ll discuss a suitable time and date on the way home and you can ask your friend and her father when we see them on Wednesday.”

Tristram beams at his father. “Okay. Thank you.”

His father nods, taking Tristram’s hand and walking over to Doctor Watson and Emily. “We should be going.”

Doctor Watson nods, eyes fixed on his father, and Tristram thinks he hears giggling from Emily’s Aunts.

“Thank you for having me,” he says quietly and is happy when Doctor Watson looks at him and smiles.

“We enjoyed having you over.”

“Yeah, it was brilliant,” Emily says enthusiastically. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“See you Monday,” Tristram answers, his facial muscles hurting from all the smiling he’s done today.

His father looks at Doctor Watson intently. “We shall see you both on Wednesday evening at half six.”

Doctor Watson leads them down the stairs to the door and Tristram stands there, holding his father’s hand while the two men stand together.

“Until Wednesday,” Doctor Watson says quietly, that same tone of voice he used the day before present again and still as mystifying.

“Wednesday,” his father confirms—repeats, Tristram notices in surprise—and then helps Tristram through the door, before following. He thinks that his father’s coat must have brushed against Doctor Watson’s leg because of how close together they were, but he can’t be sure.

The door closes behind them and he and his father begin the walk back to Baker Street. His father smiles down at him. “Tell me about your day.”

And Tristram does, happily.


	11. Chapter Eleven

When Tristram wakes up on Sunday morning and heads downstairs for breakfast, his father is already dressed and playing his violin.

These are not the thoughtful, slow songs he was playing Friday night; these are rather faster and more frantic, barely more than noisy screeches. Tristram keeps quiet as he makes his way into the kitchen to have his breakfast; if his father is playing like that, then he’s verging on frustration and it’s not worth it to make him more frustrated by interrupting him.

Tristram makes his breakfast—tea and toast—and finds himself very excited for Wednesday. He couldn’t be happier that his father and Emily’s dad seem to get on so well, and he lets himself imagine a world where Emily and her dad live next door and come over all the time. Maybe Doctor Watson would let him go over and play with Emily every day after school, and he even imagines a scenario where his uncle would let Emily come with him so that she could begin to learn the piano. If she wanted to, that is. She seemed like she wanted to. And then she could learn the piano and they could play duets or—and he has one of the best ideas he’s ever had—maybe she could play piano with his uncle and he could finally learn the violin and then the four of them could play for Doctor Watson and his grandmother.

Then he thinks that, if Emily could learn to play the piano, they could learn how to play some of those songs she had him listen to by the Beatles.

It’s a happy little fantasy and it keeps him occupied through breakfast and doing the washing up.

He’s just finishing putting his plate away in the cupboard when his father suddenly stops playing.

“Tristram.”

Tristram leaves the kitchen and heads into the sitting room, where his father is standing by the mantle of the fireplace. “Yes, Father?”

“I need to go down and speak with Detective Inspector Lestrade for a bit. I should be home before dinner.”

Tristram nods. “Is it about Emily’s mum’s case?”

His father glances at him distractedly, already making his way towards the coat rack. “Yes. You’re to work on your homework. Mrs Hudson will check in on you every few hours.”

“Okay.”

Already donning his coat, scarf, and gloves, his father nods at him with a small smile and sweeps out of the door.

Tristram runs to the window and watches his father get into a cab, waiting until the cab has driven off before running up to his room to retrieve _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_. He’s hoping this one is as good as the first and better than the second.

*

Tristram has just reached the part where the Marauder’s Map has started insulting Snape—he has to put the book down, he’s giggling so much—when he hears the door to the flat open and his father enter. He freezes, the book still clutched in his hand, and then hurriedly stuffs it under his pillow and creeps over to his door. He can hear his father speaking and then he hears another voice answer—much lower and too quietly for Tristram to make out who it could be—though it could be Detective Inspector Lestrade, since his father said he was going to speak to him. He’s not sure, though, so he quietly opens his door and descends a few steps so he can hear what they’re saying.

He father’s voice is much clearer than the other person, and from the quick sounds of footsteps and the urgent tone, Tristram can tell his father is pacing, thinking out loud in that way he has when he’s certain he’s made or will very soon make a breakthrough on a case. Tristram’s heart leaps into his throat and he stops where he is. The only case that he knows for sure his father is working on is Emily’s mum’s case, which means he might have already worked out who did it. His heart is pounding in his chest and he creeps down another step and stops, barely remembering that the next step down creaks loudly and will almost assuredly alert his father to his presence.

“...Infinity Financial...is the link...good, I’ll admit, but...”

Tristram frowns in frustration, fighting the urge to move closer. He can’t hear enough to get a clear picture of what his father is saying, but he has a feeling that—were he to ask his father about it, he’d get no answer. He sits on the stair just as his father’s monologue comes to an end and he hears a lower voice, quieter but exasperated.

“...no motive—”

Tristram is pretty certain the voice belongs to Detective Inspector Lestrade, but he can’t be entirely sure since it’s too low and Tristram’s only met him two or three times in his life. He bites his lip and slides carefully to the end of the stair and reaches his legs for the one below the next, hoping to skip the creaky one so he can get closer and hear more. For a moment, he almost feels like Harry attempting to eavesdrop on adults speaking about important things—he takes a brief second to wish he had an Invisibility Cloak, because that would make this so much easier—before he refocuses on what he’s doing. His right foot reaches out to the stair just as he hears the man who is not his father say, “...evidence, Sherlock.”

He’s almost certain it has to be Detective Inspector Lestrade, which is confirmed when his father gets frustrated enough to raise his voice. “The evidence is there, Lestrade, but you’re choosing not to see it!”

“It’s tenuous—”

“I keep hoping, Detective Inspector,” his father starts in that cold voice he uses when he’s particularly unhappy with someone’s behaviour, “that one of these days you’ll rise above the rest of your compatriots at the Met and be able to think for yourself without having it spelled out for you. Obviously, that day is not yet here. As I’ve already said, Infinity Financial is clearly—”

Tristram, in the process of leaning forward to hear more, accidentally hits the creaky stair with his left foot and winces. His father stops what he’s saying and there’s a long, tense pause. Tristram holds his breath and doesn’t move, but he knows it’s too late because he hears his father’s careful footsteps walk towards the staircase. A moment later, he spots his father’s face looking up at him.

“Tristram,” his father says sternly, “what have I told you about eavesdropping?”

He bites his lip. “Not to.”

His father nods at him and then glances significantly behind him, indicating that he should return to his room. Tristram sighs, stands, then climbs the stairs to his room and shuts the door behind him. He retrieves his book—and he’s conscious of the voices of his father and the DI, but they’re too low for him to make out any words at all, so he chooses to ignore them—and puts it back in his trunk. He doesn’t dare read it while his father is home—especially not after getting caught doing something that his father has expressly forbidden him to do. If he’s going to be stuck in his room, he decides, he should probably work on his experiment. Perhaps he won’t be in as much trouble if he finishes it.

He doesn’t have long to wait to find out, though, because it can’t be more than ten minutes later that he hears the door to the flat open and shut and his father’s feet on the staircase. Tristram bites his lip nervously and, sure enough, hears his father knock on his door before entering.

His father doesn’t say anything immediately and Tristram keeps his focus on his experiment, not only to have something other than his father to look at, but also so that he doesn’t do something clumsy and invalidate the experiment. Again.

The silence stretches out between them and Tristram is very conscious of the fact that his father is standing in the doorway, watching him. He starts to fidget slightly and makes the decision to put the slide of soil down before he knocks it over or worse.

Once he does, he has no excuse not to look at his father, though he does so reluctantly.

His father is studying him and, while Tristram thinks there’s a hint of reprimand in his eyes, overall he merely looks thoughtful.

“You aren’t in trouble,” his father says after a moment, taking a few steps into his room and leaning against one of the bedposts. Tristram, despite himself, lets out a relieved breath. “You couldn’t have heard enough of that conversation to worry me.”

Tristram blinks in surprise. "Why would you be worried if I heard more?”

“I’m still working on the case, Tristram,” his father says. “Any wrong move at this point could compromise the whole thing.”

“But I wouldn’t say anything.”

“I know,” his father says, stepping closer and putting a hand on his shoulder. “But you have an expressive face, and you might give something away without realising it.” His father says this gently—well, as gently as his father ever says anything—and Tristram can’t find it within himself to be upset. His father always knows best when it comes to stuff like this, and Tristram trusts him. If his father says he might accidentally give something away and that it’s best for him not to know, then Tristram is relieved that he didn’t overhear something he shouldn’t have.

Still, he can’t help but asking, “Do you know who did it?”

His father smiles, but it’s not a nice smile. It’s cold and doesn’t reach his eyes. “It depends on what you mean by that. If you’re asking if I know who actually killed her, then no, I don’t. And I doubt that we will ever know for sure.”

Tristram can’t help gasping. He’s sure his eyes are huge. His father, not know who killed Emily’s mum? “But--”

“If, however,” his father interrupts him, and that cold smile grows a little wider, “you’re wondering if I know who was responsible. Then yes, I do.”

“Oh,” Tristram whispers, and then he relaxes. That’s all right, then. His father will find who was responsible and that’ll help Emily and her dad. That’s what’s most important.

His father suddenly makes a face, as though a thought has occurred to him. “Lestrade, as irritating as he is, does have a point.” There’s a pause, and Tristram thinks his father is going to explain what Lestrade had a point about, but he’s disappointed. “Dinner should be here soon,” his father says instead, and Tristram can only nod. His father stares at him for a moment longer before going back downstairs, leaving Tristram to finish cleaning up from working on his experiment.

Though Tristram knows he shouldn’t, he can’t help but wonder who is responsible for Emily’s mum’s death. And then he wonders if he should tell her about what he overheard or not.

*

During his walk to school the next day, Tristram is still wondering what he should tell Emily, or if he should tell her anything at all. He suspects that she won’t be satisfied to know that his father already knows who’s responsible but won’t tell anyone. He barely is, and he trusts his father more than anyone else he knows.

Still, it feels a little like lying to _not_ say anything.

He’s not sure what the right thing to do is, and he’s so afraid of getting it wrong.

So he avoids her during mid-morning break, which is actually easy to do because those girls—Olivia and Alice—are with her and he wouldn’t be able to say anything in front of them, anyway. He sticks to the boy’s bathroom—which has the added benefit of keeping him hidden from Sebastian and his friends—and he waits until the very last minute to make his way back to class after the bell has rung.

He has much less success at lunch, because he’s barely exited the classroom when he feels Emily’s small, strong hand grip his wrist, tugging at him. “Hey Tris,” she says and starts dragging him to lunch. “I didn’t see you at break.”

He doesn’t tell her that he was avoiding her, merely shrugs and goes up to get his lunch when his class is called.

Once they’ve both got their lunches, Emily looks at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Hmm?” he asks, biting his lip and pushing his food around on his tray.

Emily looks at him, her jaw set and her eyes flashing like her dad’s did when he found Sebastian trying to beat him up. It’s a little scary, and suddenly he doesn’t want to lie to her. He wants to tell her the truth, because he feels like he should. It’s the right thing to do.

“My father told me he solved the case,” he tells her hesitantly and he has to put down his fork because he needs something else to hold on to. There is nothing else, really, so he threads his fingers together to keep his hands steady.

“Yeah?” she asks, and Tristram thinks she isn’t sure how to feel about what he’s told her. “Who did it?” she finally asks, after a long pause.

Tristram thinks he detects reluctance in her voice, and that almost makes it easier for him to say, “He didn’t say. He wouldn’t tell me because...” he trails off and thinks properly about what he overheard the night before. “I think,” he says cautiously, “that he doesn’t have enough evidence yet.” To him, it’s the only explanation that makes sense, but he’s not sure why his father didn’t just say that; he has in the past.

“Oh,” Emily says, and frowns. They both look at their lunches, though Tristram doesn’t think either of them are hungry. He knows he isn’t. “But,” she asks after minutes have passed with neither of them talking, “he knows who did it?

Tristram bites his lip and nods slowly. “Yeah. He was talking about something called ‘Infinity Financial’”

“Never heard of it,” Emily dismisses, but she looks intrigued almost despite herself. “I wonder what that is.”

“I don’t know,” he says, and he feels helpless. He hates that he doesn’t have more to tell her, so he says, “My father says that, if you want, you can come over some time. If your dad says it’s okay.”

She blinks at him, then beams. “Yeah, I do.”

“Oh,” he says, and he suddenly feels much better. He was—just for a moment—a little afraid that she was only his friend because his father could help her. It’s still a little hard for him to believe that she _wants_ to be his friend, though he knows he should trust her. Even if she stopped being his friend tomorrow, she would still have been the best friend he’d ever had.

“I’ll ask my dad after school,” she says, and Tristram’s almost relieved that they’re not talking about the case anymore. He’s just happy that he’s cheered her up some, and doesn’t even tell her that, technically, he should have waited to ask until Wednesday. He’s glad he didn’t wait.

“What games should we play?”

“Well,” he says, and frowns in thought. He’s never really thought about playing games at home because he never really had anyone to play with and he doesn’t think his father would have appreciated him playing with an imaginary friend. “We could play Wizards,” he offers hopefully.

“Yeah,” she says in agreement, “or we could play Cops and Robbers.”

“What’s that?”

She grins. “One of us is a policeman and one of us is a bad guy and the policeman chases the bad guy around and the bad guy gets to rob a bank. It’s fun,” she says with a shrug.

And it does sound like fun, Tristram thinks, getting excited. Though he wonders what his father would think about it. “Okay,” he says happily.

“What do you play?” she asks, curiously.

“Oh,” he blinks, taken aback by her question. “Well, erm...” he trails off, wondering what he should say. “I don’t play games,” he mumbles, feeling awkward and exposed.

“You don’t?” her eyes widen comically.

“No. I, erm, do experiments. And I help my father with some of his. And I...read.” He looks at her slightly nervously, unable to help the feeling that she’s going to make fun of him.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

She shrugs with a smile. “Cool. Can I help?”

He stares at her, because no one has ever looked excited about his or his father’s experiments before. “You want to?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “What kind of experiments do you do?”

“Well...” he hesitates, and then decides that he should just tell her. “I’m working on a soil experiment,” he begins. He explains all about how he’s testing the pH of the samples and how they come from all over London and how his father is helping him with it. Emily stares at him—wide-eyed and fascinated—and he can’t believe that she’s curious about it, so he goes on to explain how his father experiments on body parts and chemicals and she looks even _more_ interested. It’s heady, being the focus of her interest, and he can’t help but sit up straighter in his seat and smile happily at her, answer all of her questions until the bell rings and they have to go back to class.

For as nervous as he was to talk to her, it’s turned out to be one of the better lunches he’s ever had. He tells himself again just how lucky and happy he is to have someone as special as Emily as a friend.

*

Emily catches up with him after school is over and she ruffles his hair when she spots him. He winces away, but he’s secretly more than pleased with it. No one has ever ruffled his hair before and it makes him feel warm in his stomach, despite how strange it is for someone to touch him like that.

Something has occurred to him, though, while he was in his lessons, and so he clears his throat. “Do you think we should tell your dad that my father knows who did it?”

Once he’d got over his relief at Emily not being upset, it was the next thought on his mind. How would Doctor Watson react? Should he say anything?

Emily shakes her head. “No. He’d only get angry.”

Tristram shudders, because he doesn’t want to see Doctor Watson angry. Seeing him glare at Sebastian and those boys had been bad, and seeing him react to finding out that his father investigating was worse. Tristram doesn’t even want to imagine what true anger from the man would be like. “Okay,” he says in agreement, and he’s relieved. It was hard enough to tell Emily; he can’t imagine trying to tell Doctor Watson. He somehow feels that that’s his father’s job, anyway.

They’re both silent for a moment, and then Emily turns to him. “Did your dad really do an experiment with a foot?”

Tristram nods. “More than one.”

“Cool. And did he really blow up your kitchen?”

“Yeah,” Tristram answers, “but not the whole kitchen. Only some of it.”

“Did it all turn black, like in cartoons?”

“What do you mean?”

So Emily explains to him about cartoons, and about some funny ones about a coyote and a roadrunner that her Aunt Harry used to let her watch, and Tristram really wants to watch them and wonders if—the next time he visits Emily’s—she’ll show them to him.

They go back to talking about his father’s experiments—because he knows a lot more about those than cartoons—when they see Doctor Watson heading towards them. Emily breaks off in the middle of a sentence and runs over to him, hugging him. He laughs and hugs her back, kissing the top of her head. He limps over to where Tristram is standing and, despite the fact that he knows Doctor Watson is a nice man, he can’t help but be a bit shy, especially since he feels he’s keeping secrets. It’s an unusual feeling, since he hardly ever keeps secrets of any kind.

“Hello, Tris,” Doctor Watson says, pleasantly.

“Hello, Doctor Watson,” Tris responds, shyly.

“Dad! Tris says his dad says it’s okay if I come over some time, so can I?”

Doctor Watson laughs and looks down at her. “Did Tris ask you over?”

“Yes, he did. So can I go, dad, please?”

“Well,” Doctor Watson says, a smile on his face though he looks thoughtful, “I don’t have a problem with it, though I’d like to talk to his dad about it, first.”

Tristram bites his lip, because he knows for a fact that his father will know he didn’t wait as they’d planned. Still, he doesn’t think he’ll get in trouble for that, since he didn’t get in trouble for eavesdropping and that has to be worse. “My father said he was going to talk to you about it on Wednesday, Doctor Watson,” he says quietly.

“All right,” Doctor Watson answers, smiling warmly at Tristram so that he blushes slightly. He doesn’t mind, though; it’s nice to be smiled at, and he thinks all of the Watsons have very nice, friendly smiles, so he especially doesn’t mind being smiled at by them.

Just then, though, he sees the dark car pull up to the kerb and sighs. “Bye,” he says and begins to head to the car.

“Tris?” Doctor Watson says, and Tristram looks at him in confusion.

“Who picks you up?” he asks, nodding to the car just as his uncle’s assistant holds the door open for him.

“My uncle’s assistant,” he answers, and is confused when Doctor Watson frowns slightly, his brows drawn together in thought. “She just drops me off at home, though,” he adds, thinking that this will clear the frown up. He’s wrong, however, because Doctor Watson frowns a little deeper. He wants to ask what the matter is, but he can tell his uncle’s assistant is impatient, so he waves at them quickly and gets in the car.

He twists around in the backseat and watches Emily and her dad as they drive off. He’s more than a little confused when he sees that they stand there and watch until he can no longer see them.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Tristram is baffled when, upon his arrival to school the next day, Doctor Watson returns his shy greeting with a frown that matches the one from the day before.

“Tris,” he says and the furrows in his forehead deepen almost as if he’s concerned, though why he would be Tristram doesn’t know. He’s even more confused when Doctor Watson opens and shuts his mouth as though he’s not sure how to say what he wants to. He eventually seems to settle on, “Does your uncle’s assistant drop you off to school, too?”

Tristram shakes his head, relaxing slightly. Doctor Watson’s attitude was starting to make him a little nervous. “I walk,” he says, though he’s still not certain why how he gets to or from school seems to cause Doctor Watson worry.

“You walk? With your dad?” he asks tentatively.

“Sometimes,” he says, but it’s more correct to say that it doesn’t happen very regularly. Doctor Watson frowns again.

“You walk to school by yourself?”

He nods. “My uncle keeps an eye on me, though,” he says because he knows it’s true.

“Oh,” Doctor Watson says, nonplussed. And then he blinks. “How?”

Tristram points at the closest CCTV camera and waves at it with a smile. He turns back to Doctor Watson to see that the man’s eyebrows are raised in disbelief. “Your uncle keeps an eye on you through the CCTV system?” he asks, sounding incredulous.

“Yeah,” he answers, and he’s on the verge of explaining that his uncle works for the government when the bell rings. “Bye,” he says to Doctor Watson and walks quickly to his classroom. He’s not sure what that was all about, but he’ll ask Emily about it later. She’ll know.

*

He doesn’t see Emily at all during mid-morning break and he almost misses her at first during lunch because she’s late coming out of her classroom.

“Tris!” she calls, and then rushes over, nearly running into him. He’s already become used to this and he takes a step back just as she reaches him.

“Hi,” he says, smiling as she grabs his wrist and drags him into the cafeteria.

Once they’re both seated across from each other with their food, Tristram asks, “Was your dad okay today?”

Emily blinks at him, waiting to swallow before she looks at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

“He seemed…” he trails off, uncertain of how to explain the strange feeling he got while talking to Doctor Watson yesterday and this morning. Finally, he settles on, “He seemed worried.”

“Oh,” Emily says and she beams at him. “Well, he said that you shouldn’t have to go home by yourself and that you should come over after school, if you want and your dad says it’s okay.”

Tristram can hardly believe what he’s hearing because he’d been wondering if, maybe some time in the future, he’d be allowed to do just that. “He said that?”

Emily nods excitedly, dropping her fork onto her tray. “Yeah,” she says, smiling happily at him. “Maybe you can come over today after school!”

He’s so tempted to say yes without even thinking about it because it would be infinitely more fun to go over to Emily’s rather than go home by himself, but he’s forced to admit that he’d probably get in real trouble with his father. That’s never fun, and he already feels he has to be careful after eavesdropping over the weekend. “I should probably ask my father, first,” he says reluctantly.

“You can ask him when he comes to pick you up,” Emily says matter-of-factly, as if this settles everything.

“Oh. Well,” he begins, squirming slightly and fiddling with his fork, slightly embarrassed. He’s fairly certain his uncle will send the car to pick him up today, since his father didn’t say anything about coming to get him at breakfast this morning. “I’ll ask him when I see him,” he says after floundering for the best way to answer. He still feels a bit sheepish by his answer.

“Okay,” Emily says, not bothered at all, and Tristram relaxes again.

He searches around for something else to talk about but, as usual, Emily beats him to the punch. “I was telling my dad about your dad’s experiments,” she says. “I don’t think he understood them, though.”

Tristram smiles at her because he can talk about this, and easily. “Yeah, I don’t understand them all, either,” he says, because he doesn’t. Sometimes his father gets to talking about really complex chemical and biological processes and it goes right over Tristram’s head. Still, it’s always fun to help out and he tells Emily this because he has a feeling she’ll understand.

“I bet,” she says, partly envious and partly excited. “When I come over to your flat, do you think he’ll let me help, too?”

“Yeah,” he answers, feeling calm enough to begin eating. He chews and swallows his mouthful before elaborating. “He almost always lets me help when I want to, and I bet he’d let you help, too,” he says firmly, because Emily’s obviously smart and his father likes smart people much better than regular people.

“Cool,” she grins, leaning forward in her chair. “What’s he working on, now?”

He beams at her—he can’t get enough of the fact that she seems to think his father is interesting and _cool_ —and begins to explain about the human toes in the freezer and how they’re in different stages of decay and freezer burn. He’s immensely proud when Emily’s eyes widen—not in fear or disgust—but in fascination and he’s even happier when she starts to ask all kinds of questions about them. They spend the remaining minutes of their lunch having that discussion and Tristram’s worry about Doctor Watson’s strange behaviour is completely forgotten.

*

After classes are done, he catches up with Emily as they’re walking to the front of the school. Once lunch was over and he’d gone back to his class, he’d remembered how concerned Doctor Watson looked and he wondered if he shouldn’t ask Emily about it again, just to be sure. For some reason, the way Doctor Watson was looking at him had made him extremely uncomfortable, though he couldn’t for sure say why.

So when he sees her—and after they’ve said hi to each other—he asks her, “Are you sure your dad was okay?”

Emily nods. “He likes you, Tris,” she says, almost impatiently, as if this should be obvious. He doesn’t take offense to her tone, though, because it sort of reminds him of the way his father speaks occasionally.

“That’s good.” And it is, because he likes Doctor Watson, too. He’s so kind and friendly that Tristram imagines it’s hard not to like him.

By this point, they’ve already reached the front entrance to the school and Tristram is surprised to see—when he turns his head—his father striding towards him. His father is nearly to him already—enough that Tristram is able to see that he looks excited—and that sight makes him feel better. Things must be going well with Emily’s mum’s case, because his father only ever looks like that when he’s on the verge of solving a worthwhile puzzle.

It’s hardly two seconds before his father is in front of him and Tristram smiles up at him, rather happy to see him. He’ll always prefer his father coming to get him personally, no matter what.

“Hello, Father,” he says.

“Tristram,” his father answers, squeezing his shoulder lightly in greeting. His sharp eyes turn on his friend and he nods slightly to her. “Emily.”

“Mr Holmes,” she says, her face threatening to split in two from the grin on her face. “Is it true you’re doing an experiment on frozen feet?”

Both Tristram and Emily look at his father in expectation, and his father seems slightly surprised by the question and the eager expressions on their faces. “Yes,” he answers seriously.

“That’s brilliant,” Emily says, almost in awe, beaming at him.

Tristram thinks that perhaps his father isn’t used to being smiled at in quite that way and maybe that’s why he seems thrown, as if he’s not quite sure what to make of the situation. It’s interesting to Tristram, because he thinks his father deserves to be respected and admired, but also because he’s never seen his father look quite so off-balance before.

“Is it?” his father asks after a long moment, seemingly unsure of what else to say.

“Yeah,” Emily answers honestly. “Tris was telling me all about it and he said that maybe you’d let me help with one of your experiments some time.”

“Did he?” his father murmurs, sending a look at Tristram. He knows that he shouldn’t have asked Emily over before he was supposed to, but his father isn’t genuinely upset, so he’s not too worried that he’s going to get in trouble.

“Yeah. Can I?”

His father blinks at her and studies her. “If you like,” he says after a moment, and it’s clear that she _does_ because she beams at him as if he’s just given her the best Christmas gift ever.

“Cool.”

“Father?”

“Yes, Tristram?”

“Can Emily come over this weekend?” He looks up at his father pleadingly, both to make sure he’s not in trouble, but the bigger reason is because he doesn’t want to wait to work on an experiment with both his father and his best friend. The mere thought makes him want to laugh happily and jump up and down. He thinks that if he were more like Emily, he wouldn’t let his father’s presence stop him from doing just that.

His father still seems somewhat disconcerted by having the both of them staring up at him hopefully, because he hesitates for a moment before answering.

“If she would like to and her father has no objections,” his father answers slowly, looking at them both in turn.

“Yes!” she says happily and she ruffles Tristram’s hair playfully, which makes him squirm away in embarrassment, though he’s secretly pleased. He glances up at his father and he thinks his father looks amused and slightly surprised, which makes Tristram blush more.

He’s distracted almost immediate, though, when Emily says, “It’ll be brilliant, Tris! We’ll help with his experiment, and then we can play a game or something—have you ever played tag?” At Tristram shaking his head uncertainly, she beams and continues, “Well, I’ll teach you how to play. Or we could play Wizards again--”

“Wizards?” his father drawls, raising his eyebrow at Tristram, who blushes more and squirms a bit uncomfortably. His father still doesn’t know about the contraband Harry Potter books in his trunk and he’s not sure how to go about describing the game without referencing books he’s certain his father wouldn’t approve of. He’s saved by the appearance of Doctor Watson, who diverts everyone’s attention by walking up to the three of them at that moment.

“Hey, love,” he says to Emily as he reaches down and wraps his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. Tristram happens to glance at his father right at that moment and is surprised by how intently he’s staring at Doctor Watson and Emily, almost as if he’s jealous or envious. He wonders if he looks like that when he sees Doctor Watson hug and kiss Emily, because sometimes he feels that way. He can’t imagine his father doing that with him, but that’s okay because he thinks that something incredibly scary or serious would have to happen before they’d hug like that.

Those thoughts are gone, though, when Doctor Watson straightens up and smiles at him. “Hello, Tris,” he says, and then Doctor Watson’s eyes dart up to look at his father and the smile remains, but it has a different quality, almost strained. Tristram can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.

“Sherlock,” he greets.

“John,” his father answers, his usual blank expression in place.

“Dad,” Emily says, breaking the tension already starting to form, “Tris’s dad says I can come over this weekend and you said I could go, so I can go, right?”

Doctor Watson looks down at her and Tristram wonders if he’s imagining the worried, almost pinched look, because it’s gone and Doctor Watson is smiling at her like he usually does. Tristram thinks that Emily must have seen it, too, because she looks at him in confusion.

“I did give you permission, didn’t I?” he asks easily, and Tristram laughs in relief and happiness as Emily jumps about excitedly.

“Can she come over on Saturday, Father?” Tristram asks once both he and Emily have settled down a bit.

His father stares at Doctor Watson, who is staring back, though Tristram notices a crease between his eyebrows that he’d first seen this morning and that look worries him because it seems more serious than he’s used to seeing Emily’s dad.

“If you have no objection, John,” his father says after a long moment, and Tristram is sure that his father has picked up on some subtle clue about Doctor Watson, because there’s something different about his posture and tone of voice. It’s closer to how he speaks to most other people, though that’s not quite right, either.

“No, I don’t,” Doctor Watson answers, but there was almost a hesitation in his face, as though he was going to say or think something else, but decided against it. Tristram is just happy that Doctor Watson has given his permission.

There is a long silence, and Tristram looks to Emily for help because she’s better at this kind of thing than he is. She doesn’t disappoint, but then Tristram can’t think of a time when she ever has.

“Mr Holmes,” she says, looking up at him earnestly. His father seems surprised to be addressed and looks down at her curiously.

“Yes?”

“Can Tris come home with me and my dad after school sometimes?”

Doctor Watson chuckles and the odd, different tension seems to leave him all at once. “I was going to ask, you know.”

“You were taking too long,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Were you?” his father asks Doctor Watson, and Tristram thinks that he’s relaxed some, though he doesn’t know why his father would have been tense around Emily or her dad. They’ve been nothing but friendly.

“Of course,” Doctor Watson answers, thoughtfully, and he’s looking closely at Tristram’s father. “Emily would love to have him over,” he explains, “and it would be no trouble to look after him.”

Tristram looks hopefully up at his father and smiles slightly when his father catches his eye. “I know he’d be no trouble,” his father murmurs after a pause, and looks up at Doctor Watson. They’re staring at each other again, but Tristram can’t help but swell a bit with happiness and pride. His father has just complimented him—which is rare enough—and in front of Emily and her dad, which somehow makes it better. He’s sure the smile on his face is ridiculous, but he doesn’t care. For a brief moment, it feels that he’s surrounded not by friends—he really only has the one, so he doesn’t know exactly what that’s like—but by family. It’s not exactly the same, because Emily and her dad are nothing like the family that he has, but he thinks maybe it’s like Harry feels around the Weasleys. They’re not the same thing as friends—even though they are that, too—but more than that.

The moment passes when his father speaks again. “Tristram may go with you after school on Friday. I would say that he can go on Thursday as well, but he visits his uncle on that day.” His father has said this with the particularly sour expression that he always uses when Uncle Mycroft is referenced or present.

Doctor Watson seems to pick up on the disdain, because he raises an eyebrow. “Is this the same uncle that watches over Tris as he goes to school?” It almost sounds like Doctor Watson wants to laugh at this, maybe like he doesn’t believe it, but Tristram’s father merely sneers slightly.

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

“You’re serious?” Doctor Watson asks incredulously.

Tristram winces, sure his father is about to make a comment about how he hates to repeat himself and—given how much he hates it when Uncle Mycroft is mentioned—he braces himself.

His father surprises him, however, by showing restraint. “Yes.”

“When Tris mentioned him this morning, I thought--”

“I’d prefer not to talk about it,” his father interrupts, patience clearly at an end. Tristram’s shocked it lasted this long.

Doctor Watson hesitates and Tristram has a moment of fear because he thinks that Emily’s dad is going to press the issue. He doesn’t, merely shrugs and looks thoughtfully at his father, and Tristram exhales in relief.

Emily glances at him curiously and he wants to tell her that he’ll explain it later—for some reason, even though the experience of the previous year has warned him off telling people about his family, he thinks that it’ll be all right if he tells her about it because he trusts her—but he can’t. So he shrugs at her and she seems to accept that for the moment.

It’s marvellous, being able to communicate without speaking. Usually he can only do it with his uncle or his father, so this is wonderful. Words are hard and reading people is usually easier by comparison.

The silence between the four of them stretches out—characterised as always by that strange tension that Tristram still doesn’t understand and can’t name, though it feels friendlier than it did when Doctor Watson first arrived—and isn’t broken until his father says, “We should be going, Tristram.”

“Okay,” he says, a bit reluctantly, because he really wants to stay here with Doctor Watson and Emily. He cheers himself up with the thought that he’ll see Emily at school tomorrow and he’ll see them both in the evening.

“Bye, Emily,” he says with a smile and is pleased that she smiles back at him in return.

“Bye, Tris. See you tomorrow,” she answers, ruffling his hair again. He hears Doctor Watson chuckle and he thinks he hears his father’s quiet huff of amusement, which is worth a little embarrassment at having his hair messed up by a girl.

“Goodbye, John,” his father says, a small smirk on his face and Tristram notices one hovering on Doctor Watson’s mouth. It’s another of those looks that adults sometimes exchange—a secret, nonverbal language all their own—but Tristram doesn’t mind.

“Goodbye, Sherlock. See you tomorrow evening.”

“Of course,” his father answers and winks, which Tristram has never seen from his father before and startles him. It seems to surprise Doctor Watson, whose eyes widen slightly, and then—unexpectedly—he laughs.

“Come on, Emily,” he says, still laughing. She bounces after him, waving brightly at them as she goes.

“Bye, Mr Holmes!” she calls as they round the corner, disappearing from view.

Tristram looks up at his father, who still has that amused look on his face when he looks down and meets Tristram’s eye. He holds out his hand for Tristram, who takes it automatically and falls into step with his father as best he can while they walk along the street.

He desperately wants to ask his father all kinds of questions—about why his father and Doctor Watson stare at each other, or why the air seems thicker around them, or how come he winked at Emily’s dad—but he keeps those to himself. He’s not sure his father would want to answer them, and Tristram’s not at all sure how to ask the questions. It’s clear there’s something going on that he doesn’t understand and, if his father doesn’t feel the need to explain, it’s probable that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Still, Tristram can’t help but think that—whatever they seem to be saying to each other beyond the words they use—it must be good, because they almost seem to look forward to seeing each other. That’s enough for him to know, for now.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

To Tristram, the next day—Wednesday—flies past. He’s hardly finished his breakfast and the next thing he knows he’s at school and it’s almost time for lunch. And then he feels he’s hardly sat down with Emily for lunch and it’s nearly time to leave school. He’s never experienced time move so quickly before. He’s not upset about it, though, because he’s very much looking forward to spending time with Emily and her dad, as well as his father. It feels like the first step towards what he’s been hoping for—the feeling that there are more people in the world that care about him than his father, his uncle, and his grandmother.

It’s an exciting entrance into some wider world that—up to this point—he’s barely experienced and while he’s excited and happy, he’s also nervous. His stomach feels squirmy and he has an irrational fear that something is going to go wrong. Tristram supposes it’s just because, historically, it always does. He tries not to let it worry him because Emily is already the best friend he’s ever had and he trusts her and she’d reassured him already that everything was going to be fine and that they’d have loads of fun.

Also, he’s had enough exposure to Doctor Watson—who has never been anything but kind and friendly—to feel a little more confident that the doctor isn’t suddenly going to hate him or tell Emily that they can’t be friends anymore.

More than anything else, though, his father will be there and Tristram absolutely knows that his father would never let anything bad happen to him. It’s this thought—more than the others—that keeps him steady and excited, rather than nervous and shy, as they make their way up the steps to Emily’s and ring the bell.

There’s a short pause and then the door is opening and Doctor Watson is standing there, smiling at them. “Come in,” he says and steps aside.

His father walks in confidently and Tristram follows in his wake, as he often does. They walk up the stairs to the sitting room, and he hears Doctor Watson behind him close the door and make his own way up—slower, obviously, but not much.

Once they’ve all reached the sitting room, Doctor Watson takes their coats and hangs them up with a smile. “You’re a little early,” he says, and anything more he might have to say is cut off by the sound of someone bounding down the stairs.

“Tris!”

Hearing the excitement in Emily’s voice and seeing her hurrying over towards him and nearly barrelling him over in her enthusiasm is enough to banish most of his fears. “Hi,” he says cheerfully, and lets her ruffle his hair.

“I thought up a new game,” she announces to him, proudly. Without waiting for his input, she continues, “It’s called Science.”

“How do you play?” he asks curiously. He doesn’t miss that strange, knowing look that passes between Doctor Watson and his father, though it still doesn’t make sense.

“I am a brilliant scientist and you’re my assistant and we’re going to experiment to discover how to travel in time,” she answers, eyes gleaming. Tristram thinks it sounds like a brilliant game, but he’s not sure why he has to be the assistant. He didn’t want to be Harry when they played Wizards, but he think he’d be good at being a brilliant scientist, too.

“Can I be a brilliant scientist, too?” he asks her.

“But if we’re _both_ brilliant scientists, then who’s going to be the assistant?” she asks, as if this is an obvious flaw that Tristram should have seen. “Have you ever experimented to discover time travel before?”

“No,” he answers with a frown, because he’s fairly certain such a thing is impossible. He’s not sure, though.

“Well, I have,” she replies, “so you’ll just have to be my assistant this time.”

“Do I get to be the brilliant scientist next time, then?”

“Maybe. Depends on what the next experiment is.”

“She’s been going on about all sorts of ‘experiments’ she wants to run,” Doctor Watson says to his father, with what sounds like amusement, although there’s also a strange tone to his voice that Tristram can’t place. It’s enough to make him glance at them quickly. They’re standing close together and looking at each other intently. Tristram thinks he sees the hint of a smile on Doctor Watson’s face. “I imagine I have you to blame for this, somehow,” Doctor Watson says, his voice a bit quieter, but no less amused.

It’s strange, Tristram thinks, how adults can say something and you know there must be some other meaning because it’s there in their body language or their face, but it’s too complicated to work out. It reminds Tristram of the intricate notes his father draws from the violin when he’s thinking.

“I have been known to have that effect,” his father answers, and there’s a tone of voice that he’s _never_ heard before, something low and quiet that’s as confusing as the way Doctor Watson sometimes says things. Tristram’s not sure, but it looks like they’ve leant forwards, into each other’s space, like they can’t hear each other. Which is ridiculous, obviously, because they weren’t that far apart to start with and his father has excellent hearing. It’s very odd.

“What?” Doctor Watson asks, and his voice seems warm and low, almost intense. “You mean, you make people want things—want to do things they otherwise wouldn’t?”

Tristram glances at Emily to see if she knows what’s happening, and he thinks she does because she has a brilliant smile on her face, as if she’s just come downstairs to find wall-to-wall Christmas gifts. Before he can ask her why she seems so happy, she grabs his arm and hauls him up the stairs. The sound of their feet on the wood seems to snap their fathers out of whatever they were talking about, because Doctor Watson clears his throat and looks a bit flushed and confused. “Emily, where are you going?”

Emily stops in her tracks to turn and face her dad. Tristram is barely able to halt himself before his momentum causes him to run into her. “Up to my lab,” she answers, as if this should be obvious.

“No, love, your aunt—” Doctor Watson begins to say before he’s interrupted by the door chime. He glances in the direction of the stairs before finishing his thought. “That should be your aunt, which means that we’ll be eating soon.”

Doctor Watson glances apologetically at Tristram’s father before going to answer the door.

Heaving a great sigh, Emily leads Tristram down the stairs to stand in front of his father, who is glancing towards the front door as well, a faint frown on his face.

“We’ll play it after dinner,” Emily confides to him, as if she’s upset that they can’t go right up to her room to play it now. He wishes they could, really; dinner sounds fun and all, but experimenting to discover time travel sounds infinitely more fascinating, even if he _does_ have to be the assistant.

He can hear Doctor Watson talking to Emily’s Aunt Claire in the entryway, and then he hears them both on the stairs, before seeing first Emily’s Aunt Claire and then Doctor Watson appear from below. Once they’re both in the sitting room—and Doctor Watson has taken her coat and hung it up—he begins to lead her over to where Tristram, Emily, and Tristram’s father are standing. Before they get very close, though, Emily runs over to her and hugs her tight.

“Aunt Claire!” she squeals and her aunt laughs and hugs her.

“Ems!” She leans down and kisses the top of her head. “How’s my favourite niece?”

Emily laughs and pulls away, responding in the same way she did on Saturday, saying, “I’m your _only_ niece!”

Emily’s aunt and Doctor Watson laugh, as though someone’s said a joke, and Emily takes that moment to grab her aunt’s wrist and drag her the rest of the way over to where Tristram and his father are standing. Tristram glances up at his father, but his face is blank and guarded and it makes Tristram a little nervous.

“Aunt Claire,” Emily says, “this is Tris. He was here on Saturday, remember?”

Emily’s Aunt Claire glances down at him and Tristram remembers the unsettling feeling when she looked at him before. She makes him nervous, so he inches closer to his father while she smiles at him and says, “Yes, of course. Hello, Tris.”

“Hello,” he answers quietly, feeling his father’s solid, reassuring body against his shoulder. Knowing Emily is standing on his other side, beaming at her aunt and cheerfully greeting her also helps calm his nerves.

“And that’s Tris’s dad, Mr Holmes,” she says, pointing at Tristram’s father, who spares her an ever-so-brief smile which morphs into a bright smile that Tristram knows is an act. He doesn’t know _why_ his father is acting right now, but he always has his reasons. It doesn’t do anything to lessen the feeling of dread that has suddenly made its reappearance.

“Ms Morstan,” his father greets her with a handshake, still smiling his acting smile.

“Call me Claire, Mr Holmes,” she answers, taking his hand in return. Tristram wonders if her smile is as much an act as his father’s because she doesn’t seem all that happy to see him. Tristram’s used to this, though. Most people react that way to his father.

“And you must call me Sherlock,” he responds and Tristram thinks he sees Emily’s aunt relax a bit.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sherlock,” she smiles prettily, her teeth so white they’re gleaming. “John’s told me so much about you and your son.”

“Has he?” his father asks politely, the acting smile still firmly in place. Tristram bites his lip and presses closer to his father. It’s like there’s an unnatural stillness in the air, the calm suffocating feeling before a thunderstorm. Tristram’s always been afraid of storms.

Tristram wonders where Doctor Watson has gone, because he’s disappeared. He feels that Doctor Watson would somehow make the atmosphere seem less scary and foreboding, because he’s friendly and—apart from when he’s scaring away bullies—his eyes and his voice are warm and comforting.

“Oh, yes,” Emily’s Aunt Claire says and Tristram looks over at Emily, wondering if she senses that there is danger in the air. She doesn’t seem to, but then she doesn’t really know his father. Most people can’t pick up on the warning signs, but Tristram can. He suspects that’s why he’s so nervous.

She seems to understand that he’s nervous, however, because she shuffles over to him and ruffles his hair. “You okay?” she asks curiously, her head tilted so she can look him in the eye.

He can’t explain what’s wrong—and even if he could, he’s not sure he can put it into words—so he bites his lip and shrugs. His father seems to understand, too, because he squeezes Tristram’s shoulder briefly and lets him lean into his body for comfort. It certainly helps.

“John told me that you’re a consulting detective,” Emily’s Aunt Claire says, and now Tristram’s actively hoping Doctor Watson comes back. His father does not take well at all to conversations like this.

“Yes. I’m investigating your sister’s murder,” his father says. It seems a casual thing to say, but Tristram suspects it’s not. He supposes that Emily’s Aunt Claire would want to know all about it since it was her sister.

“John mentioned that,” she responds, though her voice seems thinner and her hand has subconsciously reached up to rub her neck, a sign that she’s worried or scared. Tristram knows he’d be scared if someone he knew had been murdered.

The silence stretches out, something taut and full of tension, but it’s a different kind of tension than the one that seems to always exist between Tristram’s father and Doctor Watson. Tristram glances over at Emily and she’s as still and as riveted by the conversation as he is. He has no idea what’s going to happen next; it doesn’t seem like it will be good, though.

At that moment, much to Tristram’s relief, the door to the kitchen opens and Doctor Watson walks back in, followed by Emily’s other aunts—her Aunt Harry and her Aunt Clara.

Doctor Watson seems to sense that there’s trouble in the air and frowns a bit, but Emily’s aunts smile at each other. Tristram is just glad that they’re here, because both Emily’s Aunt Claire and his father turn to look at Doctor Watson intently.

He raises an eyebrow at them and smiles welcomingly. “Dinner is ready.”

*

Tristram follows his father to the table, which is situated in the corner of the sitting room. It’s not a very big table, but it manages to fit all of them around it. Perhaps not comfortably—and Tristram does not have the amount of room that he is used to—but it’s not uncomfortable, especially since he’s seated between his father and Emily near one end of the table. Sitting next to his father on the other side is Doctor Watson, and sitting next to him is Emily’s Aunt Claire, followed by her Aunt Clara and then her Aunt Harry.

The group around the table is fairly quiet as everyone gets seated and starts putting food onto their plate. Tristram finds himself glancing over at his father to wonder if he’ll eat—since technically he’s on a case—and, if he does, how much. He really wishes his father would eat more regularly, but it’s never negatively affected him before, so Tristram has learned not to worry.

And he’s happy to see that his father puts some of the food—a roast with a couple of different kinds of veg—onto his plate before passing the food to Doctor Watson. Tristram’s not sure, but he thinks something must have happened because Doctor Watson jumps a bit and his father smiles a real—if rather brief—smile. Emily’s Aunt Claire doesn’t look very happy for some reason.

Emily pokes him in the shoulder and he turns away from that side of the table to look at her questioningly. “What?”

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “You didn’t say before, but I know _something_ is.”

Tristram bites his lip and frowns in thought. He’s not sure how he can explain something as irrational and unscientific as a feeling, a dread that rests in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know why he feels that way, and he doesn’t think he should try to analyse it or discuss it at the table. He leans closer to her and whispers, “Can’t talk about it now. Tell you later?”

She eyes him warily, but nods her head. “So, I have a theory about how our experiment will work,” she says in her normal tones and Tristram smiles at her in relief. He’s so relieved that she knows him well enough—after barely a week!— not to pressure him to talk that he doesn’t bring up how he wants to be the brilliant scientist instead of merely an assistant.

“How?” he asks.

She beams. “We either need a blue box or a car.”

He blinks at her. “Why?”

“Because,” she says, rolling her eyes, “that’s how they time travel on telly.”

Tristram’s eyes widen and he forgets all about his uneasiness. “Really?”

Emily nods. “Yeah.”

“How are we going to get a car?”

She bites her lip in thought. “Well…” she trails off thoughtfully. “Maybe we better try the box instead.”

Tristram thinks this sounds more promising than attempting to get a car. He doesn’t know anyone who can drive, after all, and he has a feeling that that would be a problem in using a car as a means of time travel. “Yeah,” he agrees, and then takes a bite of his dinner.

“I understand you work for Plutus Solutions, Claire,” he hears his father say from his other side, breaking the temporary silence in their own conversation.

“Yes, I do,” Emily’s Aunt Claire answers, and Tristram glances over at her to see a small smile on her face. “As an auditor, in fact.”

“That must be difficult with the way the economy is,” his father says, using one of his acting voices. Tristram frowns a bit, but he finds the conversation boring and turns back to Emily.

“What kind of box?”

She smiles at him. “It’s a blue one and it looks normal on the outside, but it’s really bigger on the inside.”

Tristram furrows his brow, trying to process how this is possible, and then he gives up. “Does it have to bigger on the inside?”

“I don’t know,” Emily answers, biting her lip in thought.

After a pause, during which he hears Emily’s Aunt Claire say, “…nothing really, the entire matter was dropped after a week…” Emily shrugs. “’Spose not.”

“Oh, good,” Tristram answers, taking another bite and chewing. “That sounds hard.”

Emily nods. “Well, we just have to work out how to fly it.”

“Fly it?” he asks, his eyes wide.

She nods again and beams. “It flies _and_ travels in time.”

“Oh,” he responds, impressed.

At the edge of his hearing, he can hear Doctor Watson chuckle. “I remember how stressed you were, though. I hadn’t seen you like that in years.”

“How does it travel in time?” Tristram asks.

“I think there’s more than one way to do it,” she answers, taking another bite. “We could make a flux capacitor.”

“What’s that?” he asks, fascinated.

“…told him he should just snog the man,” he hears Emily’s Aunt Harry say, giggling. Tristram looks away from Emily for a moment to glance at her, and she’s smirking at Doctor Watson, who doesn’t appear to have heard her as he’s busy talking to Tristram’s father.

After a moment of Emily’s Aunt Harry staring down the table, she nudges her wife and the both of them giggle. It’s all very confusing to Tristram, so he dismisses it and looks back to Emily.

Emily, though, is giggling, too, as she looks at her aunts, before she turns to look at him. He leans closer to her and whispers, “Why are they laughing?”

“Because my dad likes your dad,” she whispers back, still giggling.

Tristram doesn’t understand why this is funny. He doesn’t think they know that most people don’t like his father, so that can’t be why they’re laughing—he doesn’t think Emily’s aunts are being mean, and he knows Emily never would be. He also can’t understand why stating the obvious—Doctor Watson and his father seem to get on really well—would be funny, either. But he’s afraid to say that he doesn’t understand.

“Oh,” is all he says instead, and he takes a bite of his meat.

“You know,” she whispers, seemingly knowing that he doesn’t understand. “They _like_ each other,” and she starts giggling again, as if this pronouncement is something she shouldn’t say.

He’s still lost and he really wishes someone would explain it to him in some sort of way that makes sense. He’s on the verge of turning to his father to ask when he hears something that drives the whole thing out of his mind.

“…Infinity Financial. It took us the better part of a week, but we were able to straighten it out with the SEC and that was that.”

Tristram blinks and his eyes meet Emily’s. She’s stopped giggling and her eyes have widened just as much as his have.

He’s afraid to look over—he very clearly remembers his father’s admonishment about how expressive his face is—but he desperately wants to hear what they’re talking about. He can tell Emily does, too, so by mutual agreement, they stay silent and pretend to eat their food.

“I was relieved once that was over, of course,” he hears Emily’s Aunt Claire laugh. “After we sorted it out, I took a much needed holiday.”

Tristram glances at her out of the corner of his eye and he sees that she’s smiling at Doctor Watson, who looks back at her briefly with a smile before turning to look at his father. He’s not sure Doctor Watson sees that her brow furrows in response; he’s not even completely sure he’s seen it, because her forehead goes smooth a heartbeat later, as if she’d never looked troubled at all.

“Do you remember, John?” she asks him, and smiles happily when he turns to look at her.

“Of course,” he responds easily to her, smiling, before turning to Tristram’s father. “In June, Claire and I took Emily up to Aberdeen for a week.”

“You have distant relations there,” his father states, his voice warm.

Doctor Watson smiles at him. “That’s amazing,” he says, as though he’s fascinated and impressed. Tristram smiles, too, because even though he still doesn’t know what Emily and her aunts were talking about, he can tell that Doctor Watson likes his father. So few people do that Tristram can’t help but be really happy that Doctor Watson does.

“How do you know that?” Emily’s Aunt Claire asks, sounding sceptical.

His father spares her a brief glance before turning back to look at Doctor Watson. “It’s fairly simple. You are not a man of means and you have your pride. Though you could have relied on your sister-in-law to pay your way, you wouldn’t have gone if you couldn’t have afforded it, which meant relying on the kindness of friends or family for a place to stay. Could have been friends, but you couldn’t have seen them recently—having been overseas for some time before your wife’s death and having not left the South of England since—and you’d be hesitant to trespass on a friend’s generosity after having been out of contact for so long, so family is more likely. Also, Watson is historically a Scottish name, so it was not a difficult leap to make.”

Doctor Watson was shaking his head, but there was a smile on his face which put Tristram more at ease. “Brilliant,” he pronounced.

“You think so?” his father asks, sounding happy and almost taken aback, as though he’s honestly not expecting anyone to be impressed with his ability, even though he is always telling Tristram that they must seem impressive to ordinary people.

“Yeah,” Doctor Watson answers, looking right at Tristram’s father. Tristram can’t see his face from this angle, but there’s something about his body language and that familiar but strange tension that makes him think that his father is looking right back. He hears Emily giggle quietly on his other side—and he can see Emily’s Aunt Harry making faces at her wife—but he’s still at a loss to understand what it all means. “Definitely,” he adds, and Tristram wonders for a moment if his father will scoff at how absolutely unnecessary it is or how much he hates repetition, but it seems that the rules are different when it comes to Doctor Watson, because his father doesn’t say anything of the sort.

“Ah. That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?” Doctor Watson asks, sounding curious.

Tristram finally turns to look at his father, whom he notices sparing a brief look at Emily’s Aunt Claire before turning back to Doctor Watson. Tristram still can’t see his face, but he thinks his father must be amused and perhaps a little smug when he says, “Piss off.”

Doctor Watson laughs in response, a startled look on his face—as though he honestly didn’t expect Tristram’s father to say that, or perhaps he didn’t expect himself to react that way—and he hears his father huff out one of his understated laughs, too. Tristram thinks that Emily’s Aunt Claire looks offended.

“There are children present,” she says to his father with one of those adult looks on her face. Tristram thinks it must mean that she’s trying to convey some sort of message to his father. He could tell her that such an attempt is probably worse than useless; his father doesn’t pay attention to things like that unless there’s a good reason for it.

“Of course there are,” he says with barely a glance at her, and then he turns to Tristram. Tristram smiles at his father and is happy when his father smiles in return.

His father looks past him for a moment, and Tristram turns his head to see that Emily is beaming at his father. Tristram turns back around and is surprised that his father still looks bemused by how much Emily seems to like him. He wonders if his father is a bit like him: startled, but pleased, that people seem to like him, because he still finds himself feeling that way when he thinks about Emily being his friend. He almost can’t believe it sometimes.

“I don’t think they’re bothered about what I said,” his father says after a moment, looking back at Emily’s Aunt Claire. She’s narrowed her eyes a little, though her smile remains unchanged, and Tristram thinks it makes her look scary. The dread returns and he squirms in his seat, suddenly wanting dinner to be over so that he and Emily can go play a game.

“John,” Emily’s Aunt Claire says, looking at him as though appealing for his help, “I can’t think you like Emily hearing those kinds of words at the dinner table.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Emily’s Aunt Harry roll her eyes, looking annoyed, but Doctor Watson sighs and shakes his head. “Probably shouldn’t say words like that in front of them,” he says apologetically, but Tristram wonders if he really means it since there’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

“My apologies,” his father says smoothly, sounding amused, and he shares a look with Doctor Watson that makes the latter bite his lip and look away, the skin around his eyes crinkled as it does when he laughs.

Tristram knows that whatever is happening is important, but it doesn’t seem at all related to the case and he loses interest in what the adults are discussing. He’d much rather talk about the experiments he and Emily are going to work on when they’re done with dinner. So he turns to Emily and looks at her earnestly. “What’s a flux capacitor again?”

Her eyes light up and she leans in close to explain it all to him. It’s fascinating.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Dinner flies by as he and Emily discuss how they’re going to run their experiments. Emily doesn’t know as much about the technical aspects of experimenting—like how to start with the scientific method, the proper way to take notes, that multiple testing is necessary, and how to write everything up—as he does, so he contributes a few ideas about how to set up and run their tests. They agree that the first thing they should do is find a suitable box and then, once they’ve done that, they can discover how a flux capacitor works and how to make one for themselves. Tristram is so excited he can hardly wait for dinner to be over.

Still, as much as he isn’t paying attention to the adults, he can’t help but notice the tension that seems to be present whenever Doctor Watson and his father are in the same room. This time, though, it’s different. The tension feels stronger, but more foreboding, as though the world is holding its breath before a war. Tristram doesn’t always understand adults—the way they communicate with each other is some foreign language he has yet to learn—but he understands enough to sense that everything is on edge, waiting nervously for the bomb to drop. It’s as though they’re not pleasantly conversing with each other like their words would lead others to believe; it’s something that looks as if it belongs at a negotiating table rather than the dinner table.

Tristram doesn’t really pick up on it at first, but he gradually becomes aware how it permeates the air the longer dinner goes on and he begins to think he understands. Emily said that her dad liked his father, but if that’s true, then Doctor Watson also likes Emily’s Aunt Claire.

He’s positive that his father likes Doctor Watson, and it seems clear that Emily’s Aunt Claire likes Doctor Watson, too. But the problem seems to be that Emily’s Aunt Claire doesn’t like his father—which is normal because most people don’t—and his father doesn’t seem to like Emily’s aunt, either. This is normal, as well.

After pondering it for a few moments, the hazy confusion clears a bit. He thinks it goes like this: his father and Emily’s Aunt Claire don’t like each other and they both like Doctor Watson. So they’re trying to decide who gets to be Doctor Watson’s friend. At first, he doesn’t understand why they can’t _both_ be friends with Doctor Watson, but then he thinks about Emily and how, if he didn’t like some other friend of hers, he wouldn’t want to share, either.

He really hopes his father wins, because his father doesn’t have friends and Tristram likes Doctor Watson and he’s worried that if Doctor Watson would rather be Emily’s Aunt Claire’s friend than his father’s, that it will somehow affect his friendship with Emily. And _that_ thought is terrifying, because he remembers all too clearly how it was before Emily and he has no desire to go back to that. His heart sinks, though, when he thinks about how close Emily and her dad are to her aunt; there’s no way that Doctor Watson would chose to be his father’s friend over his sister-in-law.

Suddenly, he’s no longer hungry.

He pushes his plate away and, instead, focuses all of his attention on his friend. He doesn’t want to think about the complex layers of conversation that the adults are having, because he’s afraid of what will happen if he listens—how his heart will jump up or sink down with every word that someone says.

He’s aware, unwillingly, that Emily’s Aunt Harry’s voice keeps getting louder and whatever she’s saying seems to be making Doctor Watson uneasy. He keeps blushing and looking nervously at Emily’s Aunt Claire, and then he’ll look at either Emily’s Aunt Clara or he’ll look at Emily, or even at Tristram. But he seems to get nervous or embarrassed at looking at Tristram’s father. While he doesn’t understand what the words mean, he can spot when someone is being teased about something that makes them uncomfortable, and he’s sure that Doctor Watson is being teased by his sister. That he can understand because he’s been teased before and he usually hates it. It’s okay when Emily does it, but she’s the exception.

He doesn’t know what to do, though, so he tries to ignore it by talking to Emily. He would talk to his father, but he’s busy engaging in that strangely awkward conversation that is apparently about nothing, and yet seems very important at the same time. Tristram wonders if the mutual animosity between his father and Emily’s Aunt is contributing to Doctor Watson’s obvious discomfort. It must, Tristram decides, because as the dinner wears on, Doctor Watson smiles and talks less.

It’s a relief when dinner is finally over because Emily’s Aunt Harry is leaving Doctor Watson alone and conversing quietly with her wife—they keep giggling, but it feels less awkward than whatever they were saying previously—and Tristram thinks that he and Emily can finally escape and go up to her room to begin their experiments, which should be fun.

Tristram is just about to ask his father for permission to leave the table when Emily’s Aunt Claire stands and starts collecting some of the plates and dishes from the table. She smiles over at Doctor Watson. “John, I don’t suppose you’d be a dear and help me with the washing up?” she asks sweetly.

Doctor Watson opens his mouth to respond, but Emily’s Aunt Clara stands quickly and moves over to help Emily’s Aunt Claire. “Oh, Claire, can’t you see he’s not done yet?” she says with a grin and a wink at Doctor Watson, who blushes and looks away. Emily’s Aunt Clara doesn’t seem to notice the other woman’s frustrated frown, but that’s not surprising because Tristram barely notices it before it’s gone. “Besides,” she continues, leading her towards the kitchen, “men never do the washing up properly. One of many reasons I’m married to a woman.”

The rest of this conversation is lost as the door to the kitchen closes behind them.

Doctor Watson’s face has turned a pinkish colour, but Tristram notices that the hard line of his shoulders relaxes fractionally and his smile seems less strained. Tristram thinks his father has probably noticed this, too, because he relaxes a bit as well, and then leans in ever so slightly to Doctor Watson.

Tristram glances over at Emily to see if she wants to leave the table as much as he does, but she’s busy talking to her Aunt Harry, so Tristram stays quiet and listens, though they’re not doing much more than giggling. Tristram had always known girls giggled quite often, but he never dreamed they did it this much. He’d thought Emily would be different in this respect, but she isn’t, apparently. He decides he’s okay with that, though, because no one can be perfect.

“…want to know?” he hears his father ask, low and urgent, and Tristram blinks. He doesn’t turn his head—he doesn’t want them to know he’s listening—but it sounds…important.

“Yes. Of course,” Doctor Watson answers, and Tristram doesn’t even have to look to hear how serious his voice is, how anxious.

“You’re sure?”

He can’t remember his father ever asking that before, so he’s shocked to hear those words come from his father without a hint of sarcasm or amusement. He finds himself holding his breath, his hands clenched under the table. Something is going to happen.

“Yes.”

There is a long pause and Tristram turns his head slightly to glance at the both of them out of the corner of his eye. His peripheral vision isn’t as good as his father’s, but he can see they’re leaning close to each other, almost as if they’re trying to block everyone and everything else in the room out to keep whatever they’re talking about between the two of them.

“Very well,” his father murmurs after a moment, and leans back slightly, his face still turned towards Doctor Watson. Tristram wonders if his father is going to say more—maybe he’ll clarify whatever it is they’re talking about because Tristram finds himself intensely curious almost in spite of himself—when the door to the kitchen opens and Emily’s Aunt Clara walks out.

She glances over at her wife—who smirks at her—and winks back while picking up other empty plates and dishes.

Doctor Watson glances away from Tristram’s father and eyes Emily’s Aunt Clara warily. “You’re not giving her a hard time, are you?”

Emily’s Aunt Clara smiles sweetly at him as she piles a few more dishes in her hands. To Tristram, it appears as though she’s stalling, as if she doesn’t want to go back into the kitchen for some reason.

“Would we do that?” Emily’s Aunt Harry asks from the other end of the table, a mischievous smile on her face.

“Yes,” Doctor Watson answers flatly, “and I wish you wouldn’t.”

“She needs to learn to take a hint,” Emily’s Aunt Harry answers and sends one of those looks that seem standard amongst adults to her brother—Tristram doesn’t understand it, but Doctor Watson apparently does because he turns red and frowns at her.

“Things have been difficult for her since the divorce,” he says to her, in a voice that reminds Tristram strongly of the only time his Uncle Mycroft scolded him about something. He shudders in remembrance.

Emily’s Aunt Harry shakes her head at him and finishes her glass of water. “Whatever. You’re the one who has to put up with it.” She pauses and smiles slyly at him. “Though maybe not for much longer,” she says and seems to glance at him and his father for some unknown reason.

Doctor Watson coughs loudly and turns a darker shade of red before standing up quickly. “I think I’d better help her with the washing up now that I’m finished eating,” he explains as he sends some sort of glance over to Emily’s Aunt Clara, who smiles back at him with a playful wave.

But then, before Doctor Watson can take the dishes from his sister-in-law, Tristram’s father stands and moves past him. “Allow me,” he says, taking the dishes from Emily’s Aunt Clara. Tristram stares at his father, flabbergasted. His father never does the washing up. “Since I’m a guest, it’s the least I can do.”

Tristram is sure his mouth is hanging open, because in the next moment his father catches his eye and Tristram can see a warning there—he knows his father is telling him that this is one of those times when his face is showing too much—so he bites his lip and looks over at Emily, who is holding her hands in front of her face, as though she’s trying not to laugh.

“You don’t have to,” he hears Doctor Watson say in protest.

“I insist, John,” his father says, though it’s not brusque like he’s used to. Rather, it sounds positively warm and friendly. Tristram can only rarely recall hearing that tone of voice from his father, usually when Tristram’s been hurt or something has greatly upset him—like when he spilled acid on himself or when he’d had to get a shot.

Emily meets his eyes and starts giggling quietly into her hand, snorting with the effort to not laugh louder. Tristram just stares at her because he cannot comprehend what is so funny and he wishes—not for the first time this evening—that someone would explain it to him.

A moment later—after his father has picked up a few more of the dirty dishes—Tristram hears the kitchen door open and shut. Then and only then does he dare glance around the table. Emily begins giggling louder, and both of her aunts smirk at Doctor Watson, who looks torn between amusement and apprehension.

“Stop it,” he says to his sister and her wife, though it only seems to make them laugh more, and Doctor Watson just shakes his head and laughs a bit, too, before sitting back down.

“Oh, Johnny, you couldn’t be more obvious if you took out an advert,” his sister says to him, and then winks at Emily, who giggles again.

“Neither could she,” Emily’s Aunt Clara mutters with a roll of her eyes.

“Shut up,” Doctor Watson mutters, his face still pink, but Tristram thinks there’s a hint of a smile playing about his lips.

Tristram desperately wants to ask what is so funny, but he’s afraid—with the mood in the room—that he’ll get laughed at. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s being laughed at, so he stays silent and observes.

The adults seem to be speaking that adult language, where they can say things without actually saying them, but this time even Emily seems to understand some of what is happening. Tristram looks at her, and he just knows his confusion must be written all over his face.

“Emily?” he whispers quietly, trying to get her attention without drawing the attention of the adults, who are still making confusing remarks.

“What?” she asks, a wide smile on her face.

“What are they talking about?”

Her eyes widen and she’s no longer smiling so much as looking at him with open curiosity. “You don’t know?”

He shakes his head and he’s sure his face is turning as pink as Doctor Watson’s was.

“Oh. Well,” she whispers, her smile back in full force, “they’re talking about how much my dad likes your dad.”

Tristram doesn’t feel like she’s making fun of him, so he relaxes slightly. “Again?” he asks. He’s confused; Doctor Watson seems like the type of person who could have as many friends as he wants and who likes loads of people. He doesn’t understand why this should be such a big deal.

Emily nods. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she says and looks at him as though this answer should explain everything. He’s pretty sure he still looks confused because she wrinkles her nose and sighs. “Because my dad has a crush on yours.”

“A crush?” he echoes, still feeling incredibly lost.

“You’ve never heard of a crush?” she asks, her eyes going even wider and her mouth opening in surprise.

He can feel his face heat up and he averts his eyes, not wanting to look at her. He absolutely hates feeling stupid and not knowing things.

“Oh,” Emily says softly.

Tristram winces despite himself and it’s on the tip of his tongue to change the subject or to ask her if they can leave the table to work on their experiment, but he hears her make a thoughtful noise and he can’t quite bring himself to speak.

“Well,” she whispers, “it’s like being in love, I think.”

Tristram’s head snaps up and he stares at her in surprise. “In love?” he says a bit louder than he intended, but he doesn’t pay it much mind.

Emily nods. “Yeah,” she whispers, leaning closer to him. “Like Mums and Dads.”

Tristram ponders this. “Mine weren’t,” he says before thinking about it, because it’s true. Nowhere in Uncle Mycroft’s tale about his parents did he ever mention that they were in love.

“They weren’t?”

“No,” he says, matter-of-factly. “My uncle told me that I was a mistake.”

Emily frowns. “You weren’t a mistake,” she whispers fiercely.

Tristram stares at her in surprise, his heart beating hard in his chest. “Oh. Okay.” He isn’t sure what else to say to that, but he thinks Emily understands, because she goes back to the original point.

“Well, being in love is like...my aunts. They do things together, and they do nice things for each other, and they sleep in the same room and are married. That’s how you know they’re in love.”

“Really?” he asks, and when Emily nods, he tries to think about these criteria and make sense of them in terms of his father and Doctor Watson. His father has been nice to Doctor Watson from the beginning, and, while they’re not married and don’t sleep in the same room, he suspects this might be because they just met. They haven’t done much together, but they like to look at each other quite a bit, and they like talking to each other, too. Maybe his father is different in this, as in so many other things: maybe the way he shows he’s in love with someone else is different than how other people do it.

He nods a bit. “I think my father is in love with yours,” he says, hesitantly.

Emily beams at him. “That’s good,” she says, “because then maybe we can all live in the same place.”

Tristram stares at her, hope rising in his chest. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” she answers firmly. “When people are in love, they live together.”

He hears Doctor Watson cough suddenly and it startles him, so much so that he turns and stares at Emily’s dad, who is currently bright red and has a funny look on his face. He stands suddenly and doesn’t look at anyone in particular as he says, “I should probably make sure they don’t need any help.” And then he disappeares through the door to the kitchen very quickly, to the obvious amusement of Emily’s aunts.

“Jesus,” he hears Emily’s Aunt Harry mutter—ostensibly under her breath, but Tristram has always had above-average hearing. “Those two better get their shit together.”

Emily gasps, sounding scandalised. “Aunt Harry! You said a bad word!” And then she starts laughing, giggling into her hand again as her aunt looks a bit sheepish even as she grins.

“Erm, don’t tell your father—either of your fathers—that I said that. Just pretend that didn’t happen, okay?”

Even Tristram is laughing now, because it’s funny. His father never curses, and neither does his uncle. They’re both so aware of themselves at all times. Also, Tristram remembers that his father once told him that swearing was dull and showed an astounding lack of vocabulary. It’s strange to actually hear one of these forbidden words said aloud, and by an adult, and Emily’s laughter is contagious. It feels good to laugh at something after how confusing and worrying dinner was.

Their laughter trails off and Tristram is just about to suggest that he and Emily should begin on their experiment when her Aunt Harry smiles at him and asks, “Did you like your dinner?”

Tristram nods, suddenly a little shy. He likes Emily’s Aunt Harry—not as much as he likes Doctor Watson—but she’s nice and she seems very friendly, even if Tristram hasn’t completely worked her out yet. “It was good,” he says, his voice a bit quieter.

“Yeah, it was good,” Emily agrees. “Can we go up to my room now, Aunt Harry?”

Tristram sighs in relief, glad that Emily has asked because he’s been looking forward to their experiment ever since he and Emily began to talk about it.

“Yes, of course,” Emily’s Aunt Harry answers.

Tristram hops out of his seat and Emily has begun to get up, too, when the door to the kitchen bursts open. Emily’s Aunt Claire walks out quickly, her face splotched red. Tristram even thinks he sees tears and he freezes in place, watching in utter confusion and bewilderment as she blasts past them without a word, heading towards the staircase and the door.

“Claire, wait!” he heard Doctor Watson call, and not a moment later he, too, is rushing out from the kitchen in the same direction. Tristram watches him go, and then he looks back towards the kitchen, where his father is standing in the doorway. His lips are thin and there’s an unpleasantly cold look in his eye, which becomes harder when muffled sounds drift from the staircase that leads to the ground floor. Tristram isn’t exactly sure what he’s hearing, but it sounds like muffled words or noises. As if someone is speaking into their hands or their clothing.

After a short pause—Tristram is certain that he can hear quiet words being exchanged—he hears the door open and shut and then the sound of footsteps heading in their direction. And then Doctor Watson is at the top of the stairs, eyes locked on Tristram’s father, who is staring just as intently back.

The room is completely quiet as the two men stare at each other and the longer it goes on, the more nervous it makes Tristram. Something has changed—something has gone wrong—and he doesn’t know what because everything feels much different than it did before dinner. Even during dinner it never felt like _this_.

 _This_ feels scary.

“John?” Emily’s Aunt Harry says questioningly, looking just as unsure and wary as Tristram feels.

“Harry,” Doctor Watson says, as though he’s speaking through his teeth. His fingers clench and unclench rhythmically. “I think Emily and Tris probably want to play for a bit. Sherlock and I have some things to discuss.”

Tristram’s head swings over to his father, whose jaw tightens minutely at Doctor Watson’s words. Something is definitely wrong and it makes Tristram’s stomach ache. He desperately wants to go to his father, to ask him what’s happened, but he can tell that it would do no good at the moment. Whatever is happening is going to happen now.

“Uh, come on, Ems, Tris. Why don’t we go upstairs and listen to some music?”

“What’s going on, Daddy?” Emily asks him, ignoring her aunt. Tristram looks at Doctor Watson and then his father—back and forth—hoping one of them will explain.

Neither does. Doctor Watson merely says, “I’ll explain it later. Please go with your aunts now, Emily.”

And the tone of voice that Tristram heard before—when Doctor Watson was dealing with the bullies—is there, hidden amongst the polite, calm words. That, more than anything, scares Tristram and he hurries towards the staircase that leads to the upper level, barely turning to make sure that Emily is coming, too. He doesn’t want to know, but he knows he’ll find out. His stomach is in knots at the thought.

Whatever happens next is going to be bad, he knows. He just hopes that Emily will still be his friend afterwards.

*

Emily’s aunts put on music when they get to Emily’s room, but no one’s really listening to it. Her aunts are talking amongst themselves in quiet voices, and he feels so ill and nervous he can barely speak.

He thinks Emily—despite being much braver than him—is feeling the same way, because she looks pale and keeps worrying at a stray thread of her bedspread.

They can’t hear words, only muffled voices, but Tristram winces every time those voices get louder. It’s gone horribly wrong and somewhere in the back of his mind, he can’t help but think, _I knew it, I knew this was going to happen. It was too good to last_.

Tristram loses track of time—he’s not sure how long they sit there, how long it feels like an axe is hanging over his head, ready to strike—but it’s probably only ten minutes. It feels like ten months to Tristram, and it’s awful.

Finally, though, he hears footsteps on the staircase—his father’s, he’s certain of it, because there’s no limp and Doctor Watson takes much longer moving up and down stairs—and then the door flies open and his father is standing there, imperiously, almost _angrily_. Not quite as angry as Uncle Mycroft makes him, but nearly. It’s scary, because no one’s _ever_ affected his father quite like this.

“Come along, Tristram,” his father says, a controlled tone of voice that hints at seething rage.

Tristram obeys at once, too scared to do anything else—to put up even a mild protest—and he can hear Emily and her aunts trailing behind him, almost uncertain.

When Tristram reaches the second floor, the look on Doctor Watson’s face is terrifying. His face—usually so expressive and warm—is completely closed off and flat.

Emily takes one look at him and gasps, goes running to him. “Daddy! What’s wrong?”

Doctor Watson reaches down and puts his arms around her in a hug. “I’ll explain later,” he says, and Tristram thinks his voice sounds all wrong. It sounds cold and forbidding, and more similar to his father’s voice than anything else.

Tristram wants to know what is going on, what has happened to make everything change so quickly. So, as his father collects their coats and scarves from the coat rack, he carefully reaches for his father’s hand. “Father?” he asks, quietly. “What happened?”

His father glances over at Emily and her dad and sneers—the look one that his father usually reserves for people he despises. Tristram shivers.

“Ignorance and stupidity, as usual,” he says, as though he’s doing his level best to be insulting. “What else is new?”

“You can leave at any time,” Doctor Watson says coolly, staring at his father.

Tristram bites his lip and holds on to his father’s hand tighter. He’d wanted to ask Emily over on Saturday before they left, was desperately looking forward to it and to working on their experiments, but he can already tell that those are things he can no longer look forward to.

His father looks down at him, can probably tell from his face what’s crossing his mind, and he looks back at Doctor Watson. “You will have to put your invitation to your friend on hold indefinitely, I’m afraid,” he says. “Her father has informed me that she is likely to be very busy.”

The words and what they mean make his heart freeze in his chest; it feels like something has clawed its way through his skin and into his chest and squeezed his heart tight. It _hurts_ and he can feel a prickling at his eyes that makes him hang his head in shame.

“Daddy! You said I could go!” Emily protests, tugging at his hand.

“I’m afraid something has come up,” Doctor Watson says, staring at Tristram’s father.

He father narrows his eyes, and then turn away from Doctor Watson deliberately. “We must go,” he tells Emily’s Aunt Clara and Aunt Harry. “Thank you for a lovely dinner,” he says stiffly, as though he’s out of practice. Tristram is sure this is the case because his father never apologises. Or, really, thanks anyone for anything. It’s almost as if his father is trying to prove a point.

Emily’s aunts look uncomfortable, but Clara says, graciously, “Thank you for coming. It was very nice to meet you.”

Tristram’s father nods his head in acknowledgement and then tugs lightly on Tristram’s hand. He sends a last, desperate look at Emily. “Bye,” he says quietly, almost on the verge of tears. She looks as sad and angry as he feels and returns the farewell.

Before Tristram quite knows what’s happening, they’re out of the door and in a cab, heading back to Baker Street. He wants to cry so badly, but he knows he shouldn’t. Whatever happened, his father and Emily’s dad have had some sort of row and now he’s lost the only friend he’s ever had. Her dad won’t allow them to spend time together outside of school. It’s awful and that prickling sensation behind his eyes starts again.

He can’t even speak, so he scoots closer to his father and puts his head on his father’s shoulder, like he hasn’t done since he was five. Much to his relief, his father doesn’t say a word. Instead, he goes still for a moment—as though startled—and then cautiously puts an arm around Tristram’s shoulders.

And if Tristram lets a few tears fall onto his father’s coat, it isn’t that surprising; no more surprising than when his father leans down and rests his cheek against the top of Tristram’s head.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not having a chapter to post over the weekend. Anyway, thanks to everyone for the kudos and the comments. I hope you like this chapter as well. :)

Thursday dawns cool and grey and Tristram lies in bed, staring at the clouds he can see through his window. He doesn’t want to get up or go to school, because the memories of the night before hit him like a freight train the minute he awoke and they hurt, almost more than the time when he got a chemical burn. It’s not the same kind of pain, but Tristram feels it squeeze his heart. It makes him want to hide.

He relives it all in the minutes he stays in his bed, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as if to ward them away. It doesn’t work and he can remember those scary moments as if it was happening right at that moment—standing in Emily’s sitting room and hearing her father say that she can’t come over. In his mind, it’s the same as if Doctor Watson had said they could no longer be friends.

Tristram shudders and pulls the covers over his head, hoping that the rest of the horrible world will disappear if he can no longer see it.

It doesn’t, and soon enough he can hear his father’s tread on the stair.

“Tristram,” his father says, through the door, “if you don’t get up soon you’ll be late for school.”

His father sounds the same as ever—calm and collected—but Tristram knows that he must be worried if he’s actually come up to make sure he gets ready for school. It also means, of course, that his father will make sure he actually goes, no matter how much he might wish to hide away.

He’s defeated and he knows it, so he climbs out of bed with a heavy heart and sluggishly gets dressed.

Tristram doesn’t bother to eat breakfast—his stomach hurts, the snakes are wriggling vigorously and it’s too uncomfortable a feeling to add food to the mix—and much too soon he’s making his way to school.

 _I don’t want to go_ is all he can think, like a mantra, but it’s better than seeing those moments from the night before on loop behind his eyelids.

He’s so focused on not remembering the night before—the scarily blank look on Doctor Watson’s face, the cold, angry tones both he and his father used—that he doesn’t recall much of the walk to school and only realises he’s arrived when he can hear the bell ringing, warning that class is about to begin.

Tristram keeps his head down and hurries to class, desperate to make himself invisible. He wonders if it’ll hurt less if no one can actually see him.

*

Tristram doesn’t think he can face the playground during morning break. Emily will be there, probably with her other friends, and if he goes out there he’ll have to see her and stay away and that thought makes something clench around his heart and his throat. Also, he’d seen Sebastian and his friends glaring at him when they thought Mrs Norris wasn’t looking, and Tristram is in no mood to face that particular brand of torment, either.

So, when the bell rings and all the rest of his class rush out of the classroom, he lingers inside and cautiously approaches Mrs Norris.

“Do you need any help?” he asks her quietly, looking over to the science textbooks that are kept on the classroom’s bookcase. They always have science lessons after morning break, after all, and it seems a simple and acceptable way of staying in the classroom where he’s relatively safe. He also thinks—hopes, really—that if he’s helpful to his teacher, then she won’t get as angry at him as his last teacher did.

Mrs Norris glances up at him in surprise, and then furrows her brows in confusion. “Tristram, why are you still inside? Don’t you want to go out and play?”

Tristram bites his lip and shakes his head, looking up at her pleadingly. He sighs in relief when she doesn’t question him further. “If you like, you can set the textbooks out and then you can wipe off the board.”

He smiles gratefully at her and does as he’s asked, not at all minding the mindlessness of the tasks because he feels useful and that’s a good feeling. It helps take some of the pain away.

Once he’s finished with the tasks Mrs Norris sets him, he returns to his desk and opens his book, carefully reading the chapter on the nervous system. He knows most of it already—and in far greater detail than is included in the book—but it’s just interesting enough to engross him until he hears the bell ring again and his classmates come walking back into the room. Tristram keeps his head down and his eyes focused on his book, though he’s not surprised when he feels someone’s shoulder bump the back of his head hard enough to make him grunt slightly.

He’ll definitely have to make himself scarce during lunch.

*

Tristram dreads the arrival of lunch and, in the manner of most things he dreads, it arrives much too quickly.

He decides to go with what he knows in these situations and avoids the cafeteria entirely in favour of retreating to the school library. He’s finished _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ and decides that he wants to read the next one, _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_.

That, of course, makes him think of Emily, which causes his insides to squirm more. He remembers that she hasn’t read past the third book because her dad said things got scarier, but Tristram needs something to get lost in and he’s been able to do just that with the first three books, so why not start on the fourth? He’s not scared of a book, after all, because it can’t be worse….

Tristram shakes his head, makes himself stop thinking those sorts of thoughts. He tries, instead, to think of his father and the way he moves through the world as though nothing can touch him and no one can affect him. Tristram knows it’s not true—he’s seen with his own eyes the effect that his uncle has on his father, for example, and lately the effect Doctor Watson seemed to have—but it’s a disguise that his father wears so well it convinces most people.

His father would say that it’s because most people are too stupid to know better, but Tristram thinks that part of it is the fact that his father is a terrific actor when he wants to be. He only knows better because he’s known his father all his life and his father has never once put on a disguise with him.

Thinking about his father helps calm him down a bit—at least, it makes the imminent feeling of being ill recede into the background, much more manageable—and he walks down the tall shelves of books, liking the way they tower over him, comfortable and safe. It’s quiet and he likes that, too, the way that the books seem to shield him from the noise of the outside world and the turmoil of his own thoughts. This is why he’s always liked libraries, ever since he can remember.

It doesn’t take him long to find the shelf with the Harry Potter books on it and he pulls the fourth one down, looking over the cover and running his fingers along the spine reverently. Then, tucking it carefully in the crook of his arm, he makes his way to the librarian’s desk so that he can check it out.

The librarian has just finished checking the book out to him when he turns and spots Emily walking through the door. He ducks his head and looks around for a way to avoid her, but it’s too late because she’s seen him. She strides over to him and stops in front of him.

“Where’ve you been?” she demands in a loud whisper, ignoring the scandalised look of the librarian.

Tristram bites his lip and looks away from her, trying to think of a way to explain how utterly terrified he was, but she doesn’t wait long before she’s grabbing him at the wrist and marching him out of the library.

“Where were you at break?” she asks as they head towards the cafeteria, and Tristram can’t help but feel a bit calmer and warmer inside, despite the worries he still feels lurking in the back of his mind.

“Helping Mrs Norris,” he says quietly as he gets dragged along. As with most of the other times that Emily has manhandled him in some way, he really doesn’t mind.

“Oh,” she says, and that appears to be that. Emily drags them over to their usual table and he sees to his surprise and pleasure that she’s got him a tray, too. He’d been afraid that she wouldn’t want to be friends anymore after what happened, but it’s clear that he doesn’t even need to ask or worry. All at once, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach vanishes as though it never existed and he finds, to his surprise, that he’s famished. He tucks into his food without hesitation, smiling gratefully at Emily, who rolls her eyes as if to say that he should know better by now. He does, and he’ll make sure not to delete that information in future.

Once they’ve eaten a few bites, though, Emily doesn’t waste any time in getting down to the heart of the matter. “What did your dad say?”

Tristram shakes his head and swallows the food in his mouth. “Don’t know,” he answers. “He didn’t tell me.”

“Mine didn’t, either,” Emily says, obviously frustrated and unhappy.

Tristram has given the night before plenty of thought—too much, actually—and he wonders if he should tell her about what he’d realised the night before: that his father and her aunt had seemed to compete with each other. “Do you think,” he says, hesitantly, “that they fought because of your Aunt Claire?”

“What do you mean?” she asks, curious.

“You said your dad liked my father,” he says, biting his lip in thought, “and I think my father liked your dad, too.” He sees Emily smile a bit as though he’s said something clever and he can’t help but sit up a little straighter in response. “I thought maybe your aunt liked your dad, too.”

Emily’s eyes widen and she stares at him. It makes Tristram a little uncomfortable to have her looking at him like that, as though—instead of being clever—he’s actually said something truly strange or highly unlikely. He squirms in his seat and is just about to take it back when she furrows her brows and tilts her head thoughtfully.

“Aunt Harry said something like that once, but I didn’t think she meant like _that_ ,” she says, wrinkling her nose as if the thought is as disgusting as mushrooms.

“My father and your aunt didn’t get on at all,” he points out. He pauses, and then says, “It was like they were trying to get your dad to pay attention to them and ignore the other person.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah. I thought they were just trying to be his friend, though.”

Emily shakes her head, but it’s more commentary on how difficult and silly adults are than negating his opinion. “No, they both _like_ like him and didn’t want to share.”

Tristram nods again in agreement, because he knows that his father, at least, fits this description. “Maybe,” he says, and then stops, because a thought has just occurred to him. He has always known that his father doesn’t often get on with other people, and that his father likes his own way. It’s entirely possible that his father said something mean to Emily’s aunt and made her cry—it’s not like it hasn’t happened before, after all—and maybe that’s why Doctor Watson was so upset? But then, that implies that Doctor Watson likes Emily’s Aunt Claire more than his father and he doesn’t really like the thought of that.

“What?”

“Erm, my father doesn’t like people,” he says carefully, and then clarifies, “most of the time.” It’s obvious that, before their argument, he liked Doctor Watson more than almost anyone. “And, he sometimes says mean things to people he doesn’t like,” he adds.

“He made Aunt Claire cry, you mean?” Emily says bluntly, and Tristram can’t help but cringe at the unhappy tone of her voice. He should be used to it—that’s the reaction most people have to his father—but somehow hearing Emily sound disapproving makes him very uncomfortable. He really wants her to still like his father, even if sometimes his father is a difficult man to like.

He nods after a moment. “Sorry,” he says, but Emily shrugs and looks at him in a way that means she’s still listening. It’s very reassuring. “That could be why your dad got angry,” he finishes. It doesn’t explain _his_ father’s behaviour, but Tristram doesn’t think it would have taken much to get him angry. It usually doesn’t.

Emily looks a bit disgruntled still, but thoughtful, too, which Tristram takes as a hopeful sign. He’s reasonably certain that she won’t stop being friends with him because of his father—or, at least, he hopes not—but it’s hard to say.

“That would make him angry,” she says, eventually, but she’s frowning in concentration. “But I don’t think that’s why he won’t let me go over to your flat.” At his confused look, she elaborates, “Not because of the fight. He said he thought it was dangerous.”

Tristram is baffled, because he can’t imagine why Doctor Watson would think that their flat would be dangerous. The utter confusion must show on his face, because Emily shakes her head and wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know why.”

They’re both silent as they eat and think about this. It’s been clear to Tristram for some time that adults perceive things differently than he does. He doesn’t always understand it—often, he doesn’t. In fact, he usually only finds his father’s and—on occasion—his uncle’s comprehensible. Doctor Watson, like most other adults, is still a mystery. He keeps wondering why Doctor Watson was so angry and what the two men said to each other, and what on earth about his home could possibly be dangerous.

As his father would say, there’s not enough evidence to go on. There’s some big piece to the puzzle that they don’t have and the picture doesn’t make sense without it.

“I don’t understand,” he says quietly, and it encompasses everything—what happened last night, how things could so quickly spiral out of control from a brightly shining night to one that ended in anger and tears, and the fallout of it. What will happen now? He doesn’t know, and he wishes he did. His only consolation—and it’s a big one—is that Emily is still his friend and is as confused and curious as he is.

“We will,” she says determinedly, and he believes her.

*

The rest of the day passes quickly, and soon enough it’s time to leave class and wait outside—Emily standing with him, for which he’s grateful—for his uncle’s PA to come pick him up. He doesn’t worry about this overly much until he sees Doctor Watson turn the corner and limp towards them.

He has the sudden desire to run, to hide, like he often does around bullies or his father when he’s done something wrong. Facing Doctor Watson now, after last night, is the last thing he wants to do, but he knows better than to run off because his uncle will find him eventually and will probably scold him and that’s even worse.

So Tristram bites his lip and looks down at the pavement, doing his best to keep himself unobtrusive, which is probably ridiculous given how tall he is and how close to Emily he’s standing, but he tries anyway. Still, judging by the awkwardly hesitant look on Doctor Watson’s face, this encounter is just as uncomfortable for him.

Emily runs over to her dad as she usually does, hugs him tightly and drags him over to Tristram, who gets increasingly nervous as Doctor Watson approaches.

“Tris,” Doctor Watson says cautiously.

“Hello, Doctor Watson,” Tristram answers quietly, though he relaxes a fraction because there’s none of the cold disdain he was expecting after the night before. In fact, Doctor Watson’s voice is almost as he remembers it before the argument, except that he sounds a bit unsure where before he was all warm geniality.

Tristram definitely prefers that to this, but this level of friendliness—no matter how guarded—is a pleasant surprise.

“How was your day today?” he asks.

When Tristram glances up, he sees that Doctor Watson is looking between them, addressing them both, and he relaxes a bit more. This isn’t nearly as bad as he thought it would be.

“Good,” Emily says, and launches into a discussion about the topics her class covered in lessons, which Tristram finds interesting because Emily’s a year ahead of him and the science lessons, especially, capture his interest.

Doctor Watson looks more comfortable, too, from what Tristram can tell, and the atmosphere around them seems to ease up ever so slightly, the uncomfortable tension dissipating somewhat.

“And how about you, Tris?” Doctor Watson asks him, when Emily’s account of her day has wound down somewhat.

Tristram blushes slightly, ducks his head, but then looks up at Doctor Watson and gives a small smile. “It was good,” he answers, and is relieved to see Doctor Watson smile a small smile back at him. It feels tentative, but that’s better than nothing at all, and Tristram is very thankful and relieved that this day is nowhere near the nightmare he imagined when he woke up that morning.

Doctor Watson hesitates, before clearing his throat. “I…wanted to apologise to you if you were…upset last night,” he says awkwardly.

Tristram feels heat flood into his face and averts his eyes. He almost wants to lie and say that he understands—because he suspects it would be the nice thing to do—but his father loathes lying and Tristram has always been taught to tell the truth. He stays silent, though the awkwardness that had eased before seeps back in.

“I know you were,” Doctor Watson continues, “and Emily was as well. I never meant to upset either of you, but emotions….” He trails off and clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable with discussing the night before. Tristram doesn’t blame him, because he doesn’t really want to talk about it, either.

“Tris,” he starts again, causing Tristram to look up at him. Doctor Watson is wearing that determined look that reminds Tristram of Emily when she’s particularly insistent or sure about something. The family resemblance is uncanny. “I just want you to understand that, in spite of the…disagreement between your father and me, you’re more than welcome to come over and play with Emily.”

Tristram’s eyes go wide, surprise and hope surging in his heart. He gulps nervously and isn’t sure what to say, overwhelmed.

“That is, if your father approves, of course,” Doctor Watson adds, an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. It makes Tristram shiver, even if he doesn’t really understand it. He suspects that it’s related somehow to the fight from the night before.

“Thank you,” Tristram says after a moment, once he finally trusts himself to speak. “I’ll…I’ll ask him.”

“Can you come over now?” Emily asks, her smile bright and her eyes shining happily. “We could start on our experiment!”

Doctor Watson raises an eyebrow and looks like he wants to ask, but shakes his head and says, “Emily, he has to ask his father--”

“I’m sure he’d say yes,” Emily interrupts, looking hopefully at Tristram, which makes him wince slightly.

He’d like nothing better than to go over to Emily’s and play Wizards again, or maybe work on their time travel experiment, but he can’t. His uncle’s car should be along anytime now.

“I can’t,” he says, quietly.

“How come?” Emily asks, with a bit of a pout.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I always go to my uncle’s on Thursdays.”

“Oh,” Emily answers, looking a little disappointed.

Tristram desperately wants to cheer her up. “But…maybe I can come over tomorrow?” he looks at Doctor Watson hopefully, who smiles.

“As long as it’s okay with your father,” he says, and his lips tighten a bit when he mentions Tristram’s father, “then it’s okay with me.”

Tristram is absolutely determined that his father will agree. He doesn’t care what it takes, he’s _sure_ he can convince him.

Emily beams at the both of them and Tristram is feeling happier than he has all day—the night before wasn’t quite the disaster he’d imagined—when he notices his uncle’s car pull up to the kerb.

He sends an apologetic look to Emily. “I have to go,” he says, glancing over at the car.

Emily nods and reaches up to ruffle his hair. “Okay. Bye.”

Tristram pulls away from her on instinct, but he can’t help smiling. And he’s even more delighted when, as he starts towards the car, it’s not his uncle’s PA who gets out.

It’s his uncle.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Tristram stops short in surprise at the sight of his uncle smoothly stepping out of the car.

“Uncle Mycroft,” he calls happily and waves.

“Tristram,” his uncle says in greeting as he steps closer to where they’re still standing on the pavement. Tristram sees his eyes slide briefly to Emily and her father. It’s on the tip of his tongue to introduce his friends to his uncle and vice versa, but his uncle speaks before he can open his mouth. “Doctor Watson, Miss Emily Watson,” he says to them, his eyes scanning their faces. “My name is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Tris’s uncle?” Doctor Watson asks sceptically. Tristram glances around and up at the man and is surprised at the look of disbelief on his face. He’s not sure what it means, though it is true that he doesn’t much resemble his uncle.

His uncle raises an eyebrow and inclines his head in acknowledgement.

“The same uncle that watches him walk to school via CCTV?” Doctor Watson has a closed, blank look on his face that Tristram has seen before. He really doesn’t like that look, because it seems wrong on Doctor Watson’s face. Tristram thinks the man should always smile; he looks much friendlier when he does.

His uncle smiles thinly in that way he has when something is not to his liking. Tristram usually does his best to avoid that look on his uncle’s face because nothing good generally comes from it.

He doesn’t really like the way his uncle and his friend’s father are looking at each other right now, because it reminds him of the way last night ended, with the cold, angry glances his father and Doctor Watson exchanged, the horribly harsh words they said to each other. It’s not the same—the tension is different, more guarded and less antagonistic—but he’s never liked when people fight. He likes it even less when it’s two people that he genuinely likes.

“Uncle?” he says tentatively, and is relieved when his uncle looks down at him with his typically warm expression. He wants to ask why his uncle has deviated from his typical routine, but he holds his tongue, certain that his uncle will answer the question without it even being asked.

“Ah, yes,” his uncle says softly, with a brief smile, “you’re quite right to wonder, but you shouldn’t worry about it. I found myself finished with my work early and judged it best to come collect you myself.”

“Oh,” Tristram replies, relaxing slightly. He hadn’t _truly_ been worried, but his uncle is a man of habit and it’s very unusual for him to diverge from his established routine.

“How did you know what he was going to say?” Emily asks. Tristram glances over at her and sees that she’s looking at his uncle as though she doesn’t quite know what to make of him. He thinks maybe she’s curious and interested, but also suspicious. He really shouldn’t be surprised at the last of those since his uncle tends to inspire suspicion in just about everyone—his father included—but he is. Tristram himself has never really understood it. While it is true that most of what his uncle does is a mystery, he’s never felt threatened by it and he loves his uncle regardless.

Uncle Mycroft stares down at Emily as though he’s considering how best to answer her. Finally, he says, “I am close to my nephew, and it is not difficult for me to discern what he’s thinking based on his expression.”

While he knows his uncle is merely stating the truth, it does cause Tristram to pause a moment at the reminder that his face is an open book to more than just his father and his uncle. He shivers, though he cannot account for why the knowledge makes him uncomfortable.

His uncle pauses and glances up at Doctor Watson briefly. “Despite my brother’s best intentions,” he continues quietly, and with a firm look in his eye.

Tristram blinks and the odd, uncomfortable sensation flees at how Doctor Watson’s posture seems to ease ever so slightly, relaxing in a way that makes Tristram want to take a deep breath in relief. The tension is still present, but it’s lessened significantly.

“Furthermore,” his uncle finishes, glancing back down at Emily, “my nephew knows that I rarely deviate from my routine and he is by nature a curious boy. He was bound to ask after my presence eventually.”

“Oh,” Emily responds, still staring up at his uncle. Tristram gets the feeling that she still hasn’t decided if she likes him or not, which is odd because people tend to like his uncle better than his father, and she took to him right away.

His uncle looks at her for another moment, and then turns his attention back to Doctor Watson. “I have to say, Doctor Watson, that you are not at all what I expected.”

Tristram glances back to Doctor Watson, who tenses up, that closed and blank expression back on his face. He doesn’t say anything, but Tristram notices that his eyes are focused completely on his uncle and have not moved. Tristram looks back at his uncle and bites his lip, because his uncle is standing impossibly tall and straight. When he looks like that, it’s as though he radiates power and importance, his consequence in the world a forceful presence. On the few occasions he’s seen his uncle hold himself that way, it hasn’t gone well for the other person, and seeing it now—in this circumstance—makes Tristram shift uncomfortably on his feet and clutch his schoolbag tighter to him. His instinct to distract the men is at war with his fear of interrupting them. His father has always been strict about interrupting adults and it’s one of the few things his uncle and his father see eye-to-eye on.

His friend, however, seems to have no such compunction. “Do you chase people, too?” she asks, breaking the silence and tension as both men turn to look at her in surprise.

Tristram is at once relieved and uncomfortable—relieved that Doctor Watson and Uncle Mycroft are no longer staring challengingly at each other, but uncomfortable because anyone should be able to see that his Uncle Mycroft is much more sedentary than his father. He’s afraid Emily won’t like him as a result.

“Excuse me?” his uncle asks, looking at her with slightly wider eyes and raised eyebrows. Emily’s managed to surprise his uncle, which hardly ever happens. Tristram is amazed.

“I said, do you go on chases?” she asks again, looking up at him curiously.

Uncle Mycroft considers her in that way he has—steady and unwavering—before Tristram sees his face contract as though he’s sucked on a lemon. It’s subtle and most people probably wouldn’t notice it, but Tristram is familiar enough with the look that it makes him think of the way his uncle had dismissed the Beatles. Something unpleasant has obviously just occurred to him.

“No,” he answers after a lengthy pause, and Tristram is not at all surprised—though he is slightly distressed—to see that his answer greatly disappoints Emily. Tristram fancies that he can tell Uncle Mycroft already has one black mark, though he’s not sure how many it takes for Emily to actively dislike someone. He hopes to never find out.

“Oh,” she says as she stares back at him, and then she looks over at Tristram and shrugs as if to say, _’He’s not as cool as your dad,’_ which is a sentiment Tristram wouldn’t even attempt to argue with, much as he loves both his father and his uncle. She looks back up at his uncle and asks, “Do you do experiments?”

Tristram is surprised to hear Doctor Watson huff out a surprised laugh and when he glances over at the man, he thinks Doctor Watson looks startled, as though he hadn’t meant to do that out loud. He doesn’t take it back, though, and Tristram is glad to see that his mood isn’t completely negative.

His uncle glances up at Doctor Watson, a tilt to his head which Tristram thinks is questioning. Doctor Watson shakes his head and lets out another small laugh. “She’s discovered a new love of science and experiments.”

“They’re _interesting_ ,” Emily interjects determinedly and Tristram finds himself nodding because he agrees completely.

“I can think of one or two people who would agree with your assessment,” his uncle says, looking down at her with a slight smile.

Emily narrows her eyes at him as though she doesn’t completely trust the words, but she nods and then looks at Tristram again, who shrugs at her. He loves his uncle, but sometimes the man is mysterious to him, too.

“Well,” Doctor Watson says, looking at Uncle Mycroft, “Emily and I should--”

“Please allow me to offer you and your daughter a ride home,” his uncle interrupts smoothly. “Highbury is not very out of my way.”

Tristram blinks in surprise and he’s sure his face shows his confusion. He’s doesn’t have a perfect map of London in his mind like his father does, but even he knows that Highbury is nowhere near Chelsea. He opens his mouth to say so to Uncle Mycroft, but then he sees that his uncle glances at him with a look that tells Tristram to stay quiet because his uncle is working. He snaps his mouth shut quickly and watches in fascination and a bit of disappointment as Doctor Watson’s shoulders tense and he looks suspiciously at Uncle Mycroft. It’s clear even to Tristram that he means to refuse.

“I don’t think--”

“Come now, Doctor Watson. Surely a nice ride would be much easier on your leg,” Uncle Mycroft says politely.

Doctor Watson grits his teeth and shifts his stance, as though he’d forgotten that his leg bothers him. “Look,” he says, and pauses, obviously trying to think of how he wants to finish that sentence in order to get his point across.

“Doctor Watson,” his uncle interrupts firmly, though still politely, “there was something I wish to discuss with you, but I think the conversation will be much smoother in private.”

Tristram furrows his brow in confusion and looks between his uncle and Doctor Watson in the hopes that someone will explain what’s going on. It’s clear to him that Emily’s dad wants to refuse, still, but Emily is tired of standing around and takes his hand and tugs lightly. “Dad, can we go? Please?”

“Yes, all right,” Doctor Watson says wearily.

His uncle smiles and motions Doctor Watson towards the car idling at the kerb. Tristram hears Doctor Watson heave a sigh, but he’s looking at Emily, who seems excited and interested to get in the car. She grabs him by the wrist before he can begin to make his way over to the open door and pulls him along.

She climbs into the car in front of him and he follows her in, sitting next to her in the seats that face backwards. She’s smiling, looking impressed, and Tristram can’t help but feel a little proud of that fact.

Tristram barely notices when Doctor Watson and Uncle Mycroft climb into the car and it starts moving, because Emily has the same look on her face as she did when she said that his dad was cool. She must think this car is cool, which it is—Tristram can admit that, even if he’s used to it—and she says to him, “Do you think we could use this one?”

He blinks at her momentarily, unsure, and then he remembers at dinner the night before, when she’d been telling him all about how people time travel on the telly and that they’d need a box or a car. His eyes widen and he looks over at his uncle, who looks bemused. Maybe, if he was _really_ good…

He tries to picture it, asking his uncle if he and Emily could borrow the car so that they could run an experiment with it to see if they can time travel in it…

No. He knows his uncle would never allow it. He shakes his head apologetically at her. “It’d be easier to get a box,” he says and he sees her nod in understanding.

“What are you two talking about?” Doctor Watson asks, and Tristram looks over at him. He’s glancing between him and Emily, looking curious and slightly uncomfortable. The discomfort might have to do with Uncle Mycroft, although Tristram doesn’t think he’s seen Doctor Watson relax at all since his uncle arrived.

“Time travel, dad,” she answers with a roll of her eyes, as if he should _know_ this already. Tristram thinks she has a point because they did, after all, only discuss this last night. Then again, with all that happened, it’s not surprising that it slipped Doctor Watson’s mind.

“Oh,” Doctor Watson says, and Tristram thinks he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Emily has obviously picked up on this, too, because she frowns at him a little and then turns to Tristram with a look that clearly says, _Adults!_ Tristram nods understandingly and, out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Doctor Watson glance over at Uncle Mycroft, whose face is serene but who looks amused as well.

“A time travel experiment?” his uncle asks him and Tristram turns to him and nods eagerly.

“Yes, Uncle,” he answers. He thinks about explaining it in greater detail, but Emily beats him to the punch.

“We’re going to play a game tomorrow after school,” she says and looks at Tristram so that he knows that she expects his father to allow him to come over and his heart swells at the thought, “and I’m a brilliant scientist and Tris is my assistant and we’re going to experiment with time travel. So we need a box or a car.”

“Ah,” his uncle says after a moment. “I think perhaps a box would be more effective than a car.”

“Have you done this experiment before?” Emily asks him, looking at him raptly.

“No,” his uncle answers, and Tristram thinks he sounds curious, as if he hasn’t quite worked out what Emily is going to say next. Tristram can understand that; he’s known Emily longer than his uncle and she often surprises him with the things she says and does. It’s always good, though.

“Oh,” Emily answers, wrinkling her nose as though his answer has disappointed her. Tristram thinks it probably has, but while he’s sad that she doesn’t seem to like his uncle as much as his father, he would much rather she prefer his father. He doesn’t know why, exactly, except that—much as he loves his uncle, he loves his father more, too.

Of course, he really wants his uncle to like his friend, but it’s hard to tell with Uncle Mycroft. And anyway, his uncle seems more interested in Doctor Watson, though he can’t work out why that may be. Probably something to do with both of them being adults.

Doctor Watson, for his part, sits stiffly in his seat, his eyes moving around the interior of the car as if he doesn’t know where to let them rest. He looks tired, too—dark circles under his eyes—and he keeps rubbing at the bridge of his nose as if he’s got a headache.

“Long day at St Thomas’s, Doctor Watson?” his uncle asks politely.

Tristram watches interestedly as Doctor Watson freezes before turning to look at Uncle Mycroft with eyes narrowed, as though he’s trying to work out how his uncle could possibly know where he works.

“How’d you know where my dad works?” Emily asks him, and Tristram thinks she sounds curious and a bit suspicious.

Uncle Mycroft glances at her, the expression on his face bland, but distantly polite. “You’re very outspoken, Miss Watson.”

“My name is Emily,” Emily says determinedly, a hint of a scowl at the corners of her lips.

“My apologies, Emily,” his uncle says smoothly and Emily looks slightly mollified as she sits back into the seat.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Emily says.

“No, I didn’t,” his uncle agrees.

“Are you going to?”

His uncle looks at her closely and Tristram holds his breath. He’s not used to anyone talking back to his uncle except his father. This sort of strife just makes him think of the night before, when he’d rather not. He wants to tell his uncle that she’s really friendly, or he wants to tell her that his uncle is nice, but he doesn’t feel capable of interrupting. So he bites his lip, unsure what to do, except that he knows he wants to change the subject somehow.

Uncle Mycroft sits back further in his seat and says, calmly, “He still has his hospital identification badge attached to his belt.”

Tristram doesn’t need to look to know what his uncle says is true, but he can see—from the corner of his eye—that both Emily and Doctor Watson do. Tristram sees Emily’s dad shake his head at himself, as though he’d forgotten it was there.

For her part, Emily simply shrugs at Tristram. “It’s more interesting when your dad does it.”

Tristram blinks in surprise and can’t help the happy feeling swelling up in his chest. “Really?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

He smiles at her, indescribably happy that she still thinks his father is cool and interesting, despite what happened the night before. “Are we really going to work on our experiment tomorrow after school?” he asks her, hopefully. He’s thinking that—if his father says no at first, or seems disinclined to let him go, maybe he can mention that Emily didn’t seem to care for his uncle very much—that might convince his father to let him go. Maybe he could even mention that Doctor Watson didn’t seem happy, either, but he’s less certain what his father’s reaction to that would be.

Emily grins and nods. “Yeah. We can go up to my room and play.”

“We still have to find a box first,” Tristram says, and he’s wondering where they’re going to find a box big enough to suit their needs.

Emily nods, frowning slightly in thought. “Maybe we should do a test first.”

Tristram nods, thinking this is a good idea because it wouldn’t do to send themselves through time without having tested it works first. No self-respecting scientist would dream of it, and Tristram knows his father does all sorts of tests first before he reaches his conclusions.

“We can send one of my dolls first,” Emily announces confidently and Tristram thinks that this sounds like a brilliant plan.

“Are we going to send it to the past or the future?” Tristram asks, hoping it’s the past because he’s learned all kinds of things about history—Uncle Mycroft, especially, has always stressed the importance of history—and he hopes that, if their tests are successful, then he’ll be able to study the past and learn everything that _really_ happened.

“The future,” Emily says, looking excited.

Tristram frowns momentarily in disappointment, but he shakes it off. It really doesn’t matter where they send the first doll, and if it works maybe they can then test sending one to the past. “Okay,” he says in agreement. “Maybe we can send the second one to the past?” he suggests hopefully.

Emily bites her lip and nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, we’ll have to, won’t we? We have to do loads of tests to make sure it works before we try to send something that’s alive.”

Tristram nods, smiling. “We should send something alive before we go, though,” he says, thinking that it could still be dangerous if they don’t.

“We’ll send Leopold,” Emily says in a lower voice. “He’s evil, remember?”

Tristram remembers—it’s one of his favourite memories in his life so far, because it was the first time he’d ever played a make-believe game and it had been so much fun.

“Emily,” Doctor Watson says reprovingly, “I don’t think your aunt would be thrilled if you started experimenting on her cat.” Tristram thinks that Doctor Watson really wants to laugh because his eyes seem brighter and his lips are curving upward.

Emily wrinkles her nose. “But he’s _evil_ , dad, even Aunt Clara says so. He scratched me once, and he hisses at everyone.”

“Nevertheless,” her dad says, “you wouldn’t like it if he was your pet and someone was planning to experiment on him.”

Emily pouts a little and doesn’t answer, which seems to Tristram like an acknowledgement that her dad is right. “I still say he’s evil,” she mutters under her breath.

Doctor Watson doesn’t say anything to that, though it’s clear to Tristram that he agrees with her, even while he doesn’t think Leopold should be experimented on.

“Your sister’s cat?” his uncle enquires politely.

“Yeah,” Doctor Watson mumbles absentmindedly, rubbing at his wrist. “He’s old and a bit foul-tempered.”

“It is my understanding that cats are...quirky creatures,” his uncle says conversationally. It strikes Tristram as odd because--while he lets Tristram talk to his heart’s content and he allows other people to chat about unimportant matters—he doesn’t often do the same himself. Still, he likes that his uncle and his friend’s dad are being polite to each other, so he doesn’t worry himself too much about how strange it is. There’s probably a reason for what his uncle is doing; he always has at least one.

“Yeah,” Doctor Watson answers, chuckling a bit. “I’ve never been much for cats myself, but Harry’s always been a bit mad for them. I think she likes that they don’t require as much attention as other pets.”

“You prefer dogs.”

Emily’s dad nods with a small smile. “Unfortunately, since we’re living at my sister’s....”

“I understand, of course. I’ve never been one for cats, either.” His uncle pauses for a moment, thoughtfully, before clearing his throat. “My brother has always struck me as having cat-like qualities. In fact, I can remember being a young boy and telling my classmates that I’d received a new cat which the family had decided to call Sherlock. I would describe my brother’s antics and my audience absolutely believed that I was describing a cat rather than a boy of 5.”

Tristram is shocked, because it’s the first time he’s heard his uncle speak of his father to someone else, and the first time that he’s heard any story of their childhood. Neither his father nor his uncle is prone to reminiscing and while he’s always wanted to know, Tristram’s always been a bit afraid to ask.

“I can see that,” Doctor Watson mutters, and Tristram thinks that he’s tensing up again. Obviously, his friend’s dad is still angry with his father, which makes something in his chest throb unpleasantly.

“Indeed,” his uncle agrees, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. Tristram’s staring at them raptly, wondering if his uncle is going to say more about his father—he’s desperately curious—and then he feels a slight tug on his sleeve. He glances around to see that Emily is looking at him and she opens her mouth to say something, but then seems to stop. He’s glad—not only that she stopped, but also because she seems to know, without him having to say, that he wants to listen to what they’re talking about. She gives him a small nod and he beams at her, hoping she understands how grateful he is.

“He has...always been a curious man. Intelligent of course, if rather prone to getting himself into trouble. I do not foresee any of those things changing.”

Doctor Watson says nothing, staring into the middle distance, deep in thought. Tristram can’t help noticing, though, that his fingers are flexing.

“Unlike a cat, however, the trouble doesn’t always stay outside.”

Tristram is fascinated by the way that Doctor Watson seems to snap back to the present time and place, his eyes becoming focused and the skin around them creasing. “What are you trying to say?” he asks tightly, in a hard voice that causes Tristram to shiver.

“Simply that there’s a reason for the common phrase about curiosity and cats, Doctor Watson,” his uncle says calmly, though he seems to be staring at Emily’s dad in an intense way that usually means he’s saying something important. Tristram isn’t at all sure what they’re talking about, but that may be because he’s never heard a phrase about cats and curiosity; he wonders if it’s one of those things his father’s deleted.

Tristram is surprised when an ugly, unhappy look crosses Doctor Watson’s face, a look that only intensifies when Doctor Watson glances at him. Emily’s dad looks back at his uncle, though, and his face goes blank. Tristram isn’t sure that’s an improvement, because that one’s scary, too.

“Don’t cats always land on their feet?” he asks quietly, and there’s a hint of determination there, too, that makes Tristram think of Emily questioning his uncle.

“So far,” his uncle answers quietly. “I do what I can, but cats can be stubborn, as well as self-centred and arrogant.”

“Hmm. Why are you telling me this?” Doctor Watson demands, staring intently at Uncle Mycroft.

Tristram can feel the car come to a stop and, with a jolt, he realizes that they’re at Emily’s. He frowns because he was hoping that the trip would take longer, that he’d have more time to talk with his friend.

“I deemed it important information, Doctor Watson,” his uncle answers, that intent look in his eye that somehow never seems to manifest itself on his face.

“Did you?” he asks, his expression still blank, but all the more intense for being so. “Why is that?”

“You know how some cats can be, Doctor Watson. Anti-social creatures that don’t generally take to strangers. I’d imagine you wouldn’t invite guests to your flat without first warning them that your sister’s cat has claws.”

Tristram is incredibly confused because the conversation between the two men seems to be about more than cats, though he can’t imagine what it is they’re talking about. He glances over at Emily and she looks as confused as he is. That makes him feel a bit better because he was afraid that he would be the only one who was confused yet again.

Doctor Watson finally turns away from his uncle and opens the door. “Come on, Emily. You’ll see Tris tomorrow.”

Emily turns to him and smiles. “See you.”

“Bye,” he says with a smile, and watches her climb out of the car and sees her dad send her into the house. To Tristram’s surprise, Doctor Watson pokes his head back in.

“Is that what this is, Mr Holmes?” Doctor Watson asks, voice low and intense.

“Merely a precaution, Doctor Watson. You can never be too careful. Or too prepared.”

Doctor Watson stares at his uncle for a short moment, and then glances at Tristram, his face melting into a softer, friendlier look. “We’ll hopefully see you tomorrow, Tris.”

“Okay, Doctor Watson,” he answers quietly, biting his lip. “Bye.”

Doctor Watson smiles briefly at him before closing the door. Tristram watches him walk into the flat as his uncle’s car pulls away from the kerb and begins the drive to Uncle Mycroft’s residence in Chelsea.

When they’ve pulled off the street Emily lives on, Tristram looks at his uncle questioningly. What were Doctor Watson and his uncle speaking of? What did it all mean? Did they not like each other? The questions swirl around in his head, almost making him dizzy. His uncle’s opinion is important.

“Emily seems a spirited girl, and a good friend to you,” his uncle says with a small smile in answer to his unspoken questions.

Tristram feels the knot in his chest ease and he smiles happily at his uncle, very glad that his uncle approves, despite Emily not seeming to like him all that much.

Still...

“Uncle Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“What were you and Doctor Watson talking about?”

His uncle looks at him, and Tristram thinks he sees a glimmer of worry in his eyes, but he’s not sure because it’s gone before he’s really seen it. “We were speaking of cats, Tristram,” he says lightly.

Tristram bites his lip, unsure how to express his doubts about this, but his uncle speaks again before he has the chance.

“I see you’ve already finished this week’s homework and my work for the week is done as well. Perhaps we should start with our piano lesson today.”

Tristram beams and he puts the confusing conversation aside. He’ll ask his uncle some other time, when he’s more inclined to clarify.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

His visit to his uncle’s—apart from the extraordinary circumstances of being picked up and getting to have his piano lesson before doing any homework—goes as it usually does. After his piano lesson, his uncle allows him to pick a book from the library to read while he deals with an unexpected call from America. Afterwards, they have dinner and Tristram talks all about his friend and how much fun he’s had. His uncle, as usual, allows him to talk and only asks the occasional question. It’s comforting and familiar, and by the time his uncle’s car drops him off at Baker Street, the fear and uncertainty he’d experienced that morning upon waking seem distant, almost completely forgotten.

As he’s climbing the stairs to enter the flat, though, he recalls the strange conversation between Doctor Watson and his uncle, as well as the cold and cutting words that his father exchanged with Emily’s dad and that makes his heart stutter in his chest just a little. He still has to ask his father if he can go over to Emily’s after school and he’s nervous. His father will probably say no—he’d asked his uncle about it during dinner and his uncle’s silence had been telling—but he thinks maybe a little bit of Emily’s courage and defiance has begun to rub off on him. He takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders and enters the sitting room.

Sure enough, his father is reclining on the couch. When Tristram enters and shuts the door behind him, his father glances at him before bringing his hands up to rest together under his chin. “Your uncle picked you up from school?” he says, something like disbelief in his tone. Tristram can understand because he could hardly believe it himself.

“Yes, Father,” Tristram answers hesitantly, and then he continues because he knows his father will deduce it anyway. “He wanted to meet Emily and Doctor Watson.”

His father’s lips thin into a hard, white line and he sits up suddenly. Tristram blinks, surprised that his father looks more than annoyed; he looks _angry_.

“Never can keep his interfering nose out of my business, can he?” his father mutters, eyes flashing. Tristram gulps because he wanted his father to be in a good mood. Of course, he should have known better than to hope that was possible when his uncle was involved.

But he waits patiently and hopes for the best.

“Tell me what happened,” his father says after a moment, refocusing on him.

Tristram bites his lip and does as his father asks to the best of his ability. It’s hard, though, because the conversation was so confusing that he didn’t really know how to commit it to memory. The beginning is easy to describe—his happiness at seeing his uncle, the way he and Doctor Watson greeted each other. His father looks impatient and intrigued, so Tristram moves on to describe how Uncle Mycroft offered to give them a ride—his father’s lips thin dangerously at this—and then how they got in the car and the questions Emily asked his uncle.

His father gets a peculiar look on his face—one which Tristram thinks is a good thing—so he says, “I don’t think Emily liked Uncle Mycroft as much as she does you.”

“Of course not,” his father responds, almost automatically, but he has a vaguely surprised look on his face, as though Emily Watson liking him is still a strange and unexpected thing. Tristram is sure that’s probably exactly what his father is thinking because he straightens and throws his shoulders back. This, he thinks, is the moment to ask.

“Father?”

“Hmm?”

“Would it be okay if I went over to Emily’s tomorrow after school?” he asks in a rush. His father stares at him, and he bites his lip and hurriedly continues, “Doctor Watson said it was okay. Can I please go, Father?” He looks up hopefully, trying very hard not to plead; he does, however, want his father to know how very important it is to him.

His father says nothing for a long time, simply staring at him, before his eyes narrow slightly. “I’ll consider it. Continue.”

Tristram takes a deep breath—it’s not a no, which means that his father might still say yes—and continues. He is able to recount the conversation easily enough to a point, although he’s unable to truly express how the conversation turned from Uncle Mycroft recollecting about their childhood to the discussion on cats. So he goes silent before he gets to that bit and fidgets nervously.

“Well?” his father prods him.

He shakes his head. “They talked about cats,” he eventually says, apologetically.

“Cats?” his father asks, and Tristram thinks he sounds suspicious.

Tristram nods. “That’s what Uncle Mycroft said they were talking about.”

His father looks angry at this, but Tristram supposes it’s because his father generally distrusts everything his uncle says. “I don’t care what your uncle says,” his father snaps, and Tristram flinches slightly at the sharpness of his tone, “what did they _actually_ say?”

Tristram worries at his lip as he tries to recall their exact wording. “After Uncle Mycroft said that he told people you were a cat,” he says slowly, trying not to notice the dark expression crossing his father’s face, “Doctor Watson said he could see that, and then Uncle Mycroft said that you have always been curious and intelligent and get into trouble.”

His father scowls at this and Tristram gulps. “And then Uncle Mycroft said that the trouble doesn’t always stay outside, and then Doctor Watson asked him what he was talking about and he said, ‘There’s a reason for the phrase about cats and curiosity,’ and then Doctor Watson asked about cats always landing on their feet.” He stops abruptly, surprised to see his father blink and the scowl marring his face disappear for a brief second before being replaced by a blank expression. “And,” Tristram starts again, watching his father closely in confusion and curiosity, “and then Uncle Mycroft said cats are selfish, but he does what he can.”

His father snorts disdainfully and Tristram bites his lip. “Doctor Watson asked Uncle Mycroft why he was telling him this and Uncle Mycroft said it was important because you can’t be too careful or too prepared.” He starts in surprise when his father jumps off the sofa and starts pacing, the sides of his hands pressing against his lips as he does when he’s thinking. “And then we were at Emily’s, so they got out and went inside and I asked Uncle Mycroft what they were talking about and he said cats.”

Tristram watches in trepidation as his father paces back and forth, clearly deep in thought. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask his father to explain, or maybe to ask again if he can go over to Emily’s after school the next day, but he restrains himself. His father hates being interrupted while he’s thinking and it’s important that he not give his father any reason to say no to his request.

His father paces for long minutes and Tristram begins to shift awkwardly from one foot to another discreetly. He wants to sit down or go up to his room and put his bag away or do anything but just stand here. He doesn’t dare leave yet, though.

“Tristram,” his father says after another few minutes of pacing, “you may go over to your friend’s tomorrow after school. But,” his father continues, interrupting the expressions of happiness and gratitude crowding to get out of Tristram’s mouth, “only if...your friend’s father is there to pick you up himself. Do you understand?”

Tristram nods happily. He is so thrilled. He hadn’t been sure that his father would give him permission to go, and it’s an easy enough request to agree to because, at this stage, he would agree to almost anything to be allowed to go. “Thank you, Father.”

His father’s lips twitch slightly in amusement, but a moment later he’s as serious as ever. “Very well.” He hesitates, and then puts his hand lightly over the curls that stick out near Tristram’s right ear and rubs over them once. “It’s nearly your bedtime,” his father says quietly, and Tristram leans into his father’s hand briefly before nodding and pulling away.

“Good night, Father.”

“Good night, Tristram.”

It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep that night and when he dreams, he dreams that he and Emily are at the controls of the blue box, laughing and chatting merrily as they travel through time and meet people that look exactly like cats.

*

His father is gone when he wakes up and makes himself breakfast, but he hardly notices as the morning passes him by in something of a blur. He is almost unforgivably unaware of his surroundings, so impatient for the school day to be over. When it’s over, he and Emily can go over to her flat and finally— _finally_ —work on their time travel experiment.

He knows that he dreamed the night before, but he can’t remember much of it, only that there was a sense of excitement and anticipation that bubbled in his stomach at the beginning, and sheer happiness and triumph at successfully travelling through time in the blue box. He wants that feeling back and it’s all he can do to sit still during morning lessons.

When it’s time for morning break, he doesn’t waste any time in searching out Emily, walking right up to her the moment he spots her—even though her two friends, Olivia and Alice, are with her. He nods at them cautiously—Olivia nods back and turns to face Emily while Alice turns bright red and buries her face behind one of her books—before greeting Emily.

She beams at him and ruffles his hair. He knows he’s blushing but he doesn’t even care, because today is going to be amazing.

“What’d your dad say?” she asks him, looking at him eagerly.

He shrugs, very aware of the fact that they’re not alone, but he’s feeling so happy that it only gives him a moment of hesitation. “He said I could go,” he answers, smiling.

“Brilliant!” Emily says, grinning at him. “We’ll get started on our time machine just as soon as we get home, okay?”

“Time machine?” Alice pipes up, voice slightly wavering and high-pitched.

Tristram hesitantly looks at her. She doesn’t seem the type, but it would be so easy for her to make fun of him. Surely, though, she wouldn’t make fun of Emily, who’s her friend...right?

“Yeah!” Emily exclaims. “Tris and I are going to build a time machine out of a box and paint it blue—”

“Like Doctor Who?” Olivia interrupts, her tone almost scornful.

Emily doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, and we’re going to run experiments, because Tris is ace at those. He’s going to be my assistant, though.”

“Oh,” Olivia says, sounding bored.

Emily frowns at her friend in consternation, but Alice whispers, “I think that sounds fun.”

“You do?” Tristram asks, hardly believing his ears.

She nods at him and smiles shyly, her mouth almost completely hidden behind the book she’s holding up in front of her like a shield. Tristram stares at her and belatedly realises he should probably smile back, so he does, cautiously.

Alice, in turn, squeaks in surprise and—Tristram thinks, bewildered—embarrassment before she hides her face behind her book again.

Tristram doesn’t know what to think, so he looks over at Emily. His face must be a picture of confusion, because she grins and makes a kissy face at him that causes him to wrinkle his nose at her. He tries to think of something appropriate to say—to either Emily or Alice—but the opportunity is snatched from him by the appearance of the very last person he wants to see.

Sebastian.

“Look, guys, the Freak’s got _three_ girlfriends now,” Sebastian says loudly, smirking in Tristram’s direction.

Tristram glares and opens his mouth to say something back, probably about how, no, actually, they _aren’t_ his girlfriends, but Olivia speaks up.

“Go away, Seb, no one likes bedwetters.”

The other kids—who’d spotted Sebastian heading Tristram’s way and knew something interesting was bound to happen—say, “Ooh,” in chorus, and some of them start to snigger. Sebastian turns red, mortified, and grabs Tristram by the shirt collar, hauling him close. “I’m going to get you for that, you Freak!” he growls and then shoves him so hard that he almost falls over. Emily, though, is right behind him and grabs him by the shoulders, managing to keep him upright.

He clenches his fists and stands up straight, and even though he’s scared, he’s secretly glad that he’s taller than Sebastian. And he’s not going to back down.

Of course, just at the moment when he’s going to stand up for himself, the bell rings. He exchanges a dirty look with Sebastian and it’s clear that, though this battle is over, the war is still being waged.

*

When it’s lunch time, he finds Emily and is grateful that it’ll just be the two of them, as usual. As surprised as he was that Olivia was the one to verbally tear Sebastian down, he still can’t get too comfortable around her or Alice; they confuse him in ways that Emily doesn’t.

They are just sitting down when Tristram spies Sebastian and his friends across the cafeteria, glaring at him. He glares back at them, and watches them out of the corner of his eye for a moment before turning to address Emily. “Sebastian’s staring over here.” He tries to make it sound like it doesn’t matter, but he thinks some of his apprehension has crept into his voice.

“Ignore them,” Emily says, her voice determined, but she undermines her own advice by turning in her chair to glare at them, too.

“I hope they don’t come over here,” he says, quietly, because he doesn’t want to disrupt his lunch by having to deal with those idiots. They’re probably just going to say stupid things about Emily being his girlfriend _again_ , and it’s getting boring.

“They won’t if they know what’s good for them,” Emily says, turning away from them and smiling grimly at Tristram. “They’re stupid.”

Tristram nods and forces himself not to pay too much attention to them; maybe they’ll take the hint and just leave him and Emily alone.

Of course, they probably won’t, and this pessimistic prediction is confirmed when he glances back over in time to see Sebastian and his friends stand and stride towards them.

Tristram grits his teeth and has time to mutter, under his breath, “They’re coming.” Emily frowns and starts to say something, but it’s too late; Sebastian is already there, standing over them and glaring down at Tristram.

“Where’s your other girlfriends, Freak?” Sebastian sneers.

“They’re _not_ my girlfriends!” Tristram declares hotly, his face turning slightly pink.

“Did they dump you? Guess they’re smarter than they look,” Sebastian says back and smirks as his friends laugh.

Tristram grits his teeth. “No,” he says, his fists clenching. He desperately wants to say something cutting and clever back, but his mind is racing and his tongue is absolutely tied.

“Who’re you to judge who’s smart?” Emily says loudly, “’Cause you’re dumber than a dog.”

Sebastian’s face crumples into an ugly look for a moment—as though he’s swallowed a bug—before he rearranges it into the menacing look he gets when he’s been insulted. “You’d know,” he says nastily, “seeing as you are one.”

Emily is on her feet and in Sebastian’s personal space before Tristram has fully registered the insult. She’s got such a cold, hard look on her face that he’s reminded of when her dad gets really angry. He shivers slightly, but stands slowly, backing up his friend.

“What’d you say?” she says, her fists clenched at her sides and her jaw set.

Tristram is surprised that Sebastian and his friends haven’t fled back to the other side of the cafeteria; if Emily ever looked at him like that, he’d probably be apologising or begging for forgiveness before she’d even opened her mouth. As it is, he can tell they’re scared despite themselves, because they’ve all taken a step back and some of Sebastian’s friends—Andrew in particular—are pale and their eyes are darting around, looking for an escape route.

“I said,” Sebastian sneers, though it lacks the cruel edge it had before, replaced by a slight quiver, “that you’re just a dumb dog.”

Emily’s eyes narrow and Sebastian’s friends shift nervously from side to side, glancing around the cafeteria in an effort to look anywhere but at her. “My dad used to be in the Army,” she says, her right hand rubbing over her left fist in a move that’s crystal clear to Sebastian’s friends. They start to slowly slide away from the table and back towards the other end of the room, leaving Sebastian to face her alone. “He’s taught me all sorts of things,” she says ominously, glaring angrily at Sebastian, who has the appearance of someone who has got more than he bargained for.

He glares at her, jaw working like he wants to say something to regain control of the situation but can’t think of anything. After a moment, he decides to ignore her and refocuses his attention on Tristram. “You won’t always have your girlfriend to protect you, Freak,” he warns through clenched teeth, “and then we’ll see how tough you _really_ are.” And with that, he turns around and storms off.

Tristram releases a deep breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and can’t help but smile over at Emily, who smiles back at him. They both sit down, though Tristram isn’t really in the mood to eat anymore. He doesn’t look over at Sebastian, but the hairs on the back of his neck are raised and it almost feels like there are eyes on him. It’s not a pleasant feeling and—while Emily got them to back down this time—he’s worried about the next time they try and bully him or beat him up, especially if she’s not there. Much as he hates to admit that, even to himself.

“Forget them,” she says, as though she can read his mind. He can’t help but notice that she doesn’t seem all that interested in her food, either. “What do they know?”

He exhales shakily and smiles determinedly at her. “Nothing.”

She grins back at him and leans forward. Her eyes are sparkling. “Right,” she says. “Now, I found a perfect box for us to use when we go home.”

Tristram feels the muscles in his shoulders and neck relax a bit and he concentrates on listening, blocking the rest of the world out. It’s surprisingly easy to do and, by the time lunch is over, he’s almost completely forgotten about Sebastian and his friends, lost in the excitement and anticipation of the time travel experiment.

*

When the bell to signal the end of the day finally rings, Tristram makes his way out of the classroom, his heart is beating a little harder in anticipation. There’s a bounce in his step that wasn’t there before, as he waits impatiently by Emily’s classroom for her to come out. He doesn’t have long to wait, thankfully, and he’s pleased and relieved to see that she’s nearly as excited and happy as he is.

“Come on, Tris,” she says, grabbing his wrist and dragging him to the front of the school to wait for her dad. For once, though she’s trying to drag him along behind her, he’s able to catch up and keep up with her, not even bothered that it looks like they’re holding hands now—despite all the teasing from Sebastian earlier.

When they get to the front of the school, Emily drops his wrist and whirls around to face him, “After we get home, we can…” Tristram blinks as she trails off and looks past him. “Aunt Claire!” she calls and goes running. He bites his lip and turns. Sure enough, there’s Emily’s Aunt Claire, hugging her niece.

“Hey there, Ems!” Emily’s Aunt Claire says as she hugs Emily tightly, and then she pulls away and looks closely at Emily. Tristram is a little unnerved by the look on her face, because even though she’s smiling, she looks strained. There are dark circles under her eyes and lines around the corners of her mouth, and Tristram thinks she looks exhausted and stressed. He doesn’t know her well, though, and it sounds like she has a stressful job. Adults often look harried or annoyed, Tristram thinks, and the uneasy feeling in his stomach fades a bit.

“How’s my favourite niece?”

“Aunt Claire, I’m your _only_ niece!” Emily says with a giggle.

Tristram looks around nervously. He doesn’t see Doctor Watson with her and he remembers the condition his father placed on him the night before: he can only go over to Emily’s if Doctor Watson is the one to pick them up.

“You kids ready to go?” Emily’s Aunt Claire asks them, a smile on her pale face.

“Yeah,” Emily answers happily, and looks over at Tristram eagerly. “Come on, let’s go!”

Tristram shifts his bag on his shoulder, unsure what to do. He promised his father and he doesn’t want to disobey, because his father can be scary when people don’t listen. But, on the other hand…

His father _did_ say he could go over to Emily’s, and it’s not as though her aunt is a complete stranger. And, besides, maybe Doctor Watson is on his way and is going to meet them, so what could it hurt to go with Emily’s aunt for just a few minutes?

He doesn’t know what to do, and he feels terrible when Emily tilts her head and looks at him in confusion. “Tris? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says cautiously, but stops there. He’s rubbish at thinking on his feet and the situation is making him uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to offend Emily and he doesn’t want to make her aunt upset, but his father was very clear that he was only to go with Doctor Watson and no one else.

“Tris,” Emily’s Aunt Claire says, moving close to him and looking at him closely, “it’s okay. John told me he’s running late and asked me to come pick you two up.”

“How come he’s late?” Emily asks, curiously.

Her aunt smiles and it looks strained and fragile on her face. Something about it makes him shiver. “There’s…there’s been a bit of a scare,” she says hesitantly and with a little bit of fear.

“What kind of scare? Is he okay?” Emily demands, sounding worried.

“He’s fine,” her aunt says, trying to reassure her, though Tristram doesn’t think her smile looks all that comforting. “On the news, there’s been a…a bomb scare. At Piccadilly Circus. They’ve had to shut down the Tube and some of the streets. It’s a mess, but no one’s been hurt,” she adds quickly, seeing their worried faces. “Your dad’s fine,” she says to Emily with another smile, “just caught up in it all.”

“Oh, okay,” Emily says, relaxing. “See?” she says, turning to look at him with a brilliant smile. “It’s okay.”

He bites his lip because it certainly sounds okay to him. Well, apart from there being a bomb, but it doesn’t sound like anyone’s been hurt, so the police are probably taking care of it. Still, if his father finds out—and Tristram has no doubt that he _will_ find out—it could be very bad. Plus, his father always knows best…

“Come on, Tris,” she says pleadingly, tugging on his arm.

Tristram takes a deep breath and smiles at her. “Okay, let’s go.”


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, sorry I didn't get one up yesterday! I'll try to get this completely uploaded this weekend, but I make no promises.

The guilt and nausea of disobeying his father assaults Tristram the minute they climb into Emily’s aunt’s car.

He can’t help but worry what his father’s going to say when he finds out that Tristram has deliberately disobeyed him—and Tristram already _knows_ his father will find out. He’s never done anything like this before, and he’s starting to feel a little sick to his stomach, no matter how much he tries to tell himself that everything’s going to be fine. He has a very bad feeling that he’s going to be in so much trouble that he’ll wish he and Emily had already built their time machine so that he can go back and warn himself against this course of action.

At that thought, he finds himself glancing around, looking for his future-self to come warn or save him. No one comes. Instead, the car starts up and Emily’s aunt pulls away from the kerb and begins blending into traffic so she can make a right turn to head east on Marylebone Road.

In an effort to distract himself from his increasingly fearful thoughts, he turns to Emily and smiles at her, hoping it doesn’t look as nervous as it feels. “What are we going to do with the box first?”

Emily furrows her brow, looking worried. “Are you okay?” she asks bluntly, ignoring his question.

He bites his lip and shrugs. “I will be,” he promises. With any luck, it sounds convincing.

She looks suspiciously at him. “Are you sure?”

He nods.

“Okay,” she says, sounding unsure, but willing to let it go for the moment. “Well, I was thinking that we could paint it blue, first.”

“How big is it?”

“Well, it’s a shoe box,” she admits almost reluctantly. “But we need to test it on a small scale first, right?”

“Yeah,” he answers, relaxing a bit. The conversation is helping and he feels that if they can just keep talking all the way to Emily’s, he’ll be back to normal by the time they get there. Emily is the best of anyone he’s ever met—apart from his father, on occasion—at reassuring him that everything’s fine.

She beams at him and he can feel himself relax further; her smile says that everything is going to be all right, as long as she’s there. “Okay. But it has to be blue to be a proper time machine.”

“It does?” he asks, curious. He didn’t know there were rules about time machines.

Emily nods emphatically. “Yeah,” she says, “because—” but she’s interrupted by the sound of a mobile ringing. Tristram doesn’t recognise the song, though he can clearly hear the piano and the voices--a duet between a man and a woman, singing about their endless love. It’s interesting because he’s never heard it before, but he doesn’t like it nearly as much as he liked the Beatles.

“That’s dad!” Emily exclaims, reaching over the front seat to grab at her aunt’s purse.

“Ems!” her aunt scolds sharply, grabbing at her purse before Emily can reach it. “Put your seatbelt on!”

Emily frowns and does as she’s told. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” she asks, petulantly.

“You know I can’t,” her aunt replies, trying to keep her eyes on the road while clutching her purse tight. Tristram can’t help but notice that her knuckles are white on the wheel. “I’m driving.” And then he sees her eye them in the rear view mirror and he thinks she looks frantic. It doesn’t show on her face, but he can relate to the trapped look in her eye. He shivers.

“I can answer it,” Emily says and holds out her hand.

“Not right now,” her aunt answers, staring hard at the traffic on the road. Tristram watches her eyes intently, and a sense of wrongness settles over his skin. Emily’s aunt looks preoccupied by the traffic on the road, but when he pretends to look out of the window, he catches her staring at him. It’s unnerving and he feels that if his father were here, he’d know exactly what was wrong about it. Tristram isn’t that good, yet, but he can tell it’s important. Somehow.

“I won’t reach it in time anyway,” Emily’s Aunt Claire says and her point is proved when the song stops and a beep sounds.

Emily looks like she’s about to open her mouth to say something—Tristram’s not sure what, exactly, but he suspects it may be to ask for the mobile again so that she can talk to her dad—when it rings once more, this time with the shrill ringing that Tristram associates with non-mobile phones. Curiously, Emily’s aunt digs through her purse with a sense of urgency and answers it on the second ring.

“Yes?”

Tristram, straining his ears, can’t make out more than just a voice; it sounds like a man because it’s deeper than a woman’s typically is, more rumbling. No matter how hard he tries, though, he can’t make out any words. He can tell that he’s never heard this voice before, but the man must be making an effort to stay quiet because he thinks—given his father’s experiments with the volume of voices on a mobile discernible by bystanders—that he should be able to hear more.

“Who is it, Aunt Claire?” Emily pipes up, looking at the phone in her hand curiously and with a touch of confusion.

Tristram sees her aunt look meaningfully at her in the rear view mirror, in a way that even he can interpret means that she’s on the phone and can’t answer, and he glances to his right to see that Emily is frowning at not having her question answered.

His attention is drawn back to her aunt when he hears her say, “Yes, I already have most of the direc....”

She trails off and glances in the rear view mirror at him again, and he’s not sure why she keeps looking at him, as if he’s being distracting or trying to get her attention. Nothing could be further from the truth. “Yes, okay,” she says after a moment, refocusing back on the street. “13 Factory Ro—yes, in forty-five.... Right.” Emily’s aunt finishes her call, and Tristram can’t help but notice that she looks pale and her eyes are wide.

And she’s looking at him again, though her eyes flash forward almost before he registers it.

He’d not noticed the sinking sensation in his stomach while he was paying attention to the call, but now that the call is over, he feels nauseous, a sort of roiling like he’s eaten something that’s gone off.

“How come you answered the phone that time?” Emily demands, looking put out.

“It was a really important work call, Ems,” her aunt answers promptly, but Tristram is watching the mirror and he sees her eyes dart off to the left and he knows that she’s lying.

 _Wrong_ , he thinks, and it sounds just like his father’s voice. He tries not to flinch at that—his father is going to be _furious_ with him for getting himself into this situation.

He has to think, and he has to think quickly, because something is wrong here and he doesn’t know what, but he has to protect Emily because she doesn’t realise it yet.

“Oh,” Emily says in response. “Well,” she says, after a moment of thought, “can I call dad? He’s probably worried if something’s going on.”

“He’s fine, sweetheart,” her aunt says, smiling at her, though Tristram thinks it looks tense and not at all reassuring. “I talked to him right before I came to pick you two up.”

“What’d he say?” Emily asks right away, but while she’s demanding an answer, she’s smiling, too.

“Oh, the usual,” her aunt replies, laughing shrilly—though Emily doesn’t seem to notice and Tristram can’t understand why she doesn’t seem to realise that something is dreadfully wrong. She’s always shown herself to be more perceptive than most people, so why can’t she see this thing right in front of her face? “He said it’d been a long day at work and of course the Tube was all bollocksed up—you two didn’t hear me say that, okay?” she asks them conspiratorially, and Emily promptly laughs.

Tristram bites his lip and can’t help recalling her reaction to his father’s mild curse during dinner the other night. It strikes him as wrong that she’s using curse words in front of them now.

“Anyway,” she continues, while coming to a stop at a red light, “he said that it was going to take him ages to get home, and he asked if I would come get you, which I did. Of course,” she says, musingly, “I didn’t expect that I was going to have to run an errand for work. So it may take us a little longer to get you two home, okay?” Her eyes drift to the left for a moment before refocusing on the road, and Tristram clutches his hands together to stop them from shaking.

He remembers a lesson, from not that long ago, that his father gave him about interpreting certain facial ticks and expressions; one of which was that eyes drifting to the left generally indicated the construction of something they had never before experienced. In short, his father said, lying.

 _She’s lying_ , he thinks, and he knows that’s bad. Why would she lie?

Emily nods, smiling like this is a big adventure, but Tristram does not feel like they’re on an adventure at all. The only thing holding the panic and nervousness at bay is concentrating on the environment around him. So he stays silent and watches.

Emily’s aunt appears lost in thought, and Tristram is almost concerned that she’s not paying attention to anything around her and won’t notice if the light turns green. She does, though, and they continue east. “And he told me to tell you, Miss Emily, that he loves you very much and to give you a big hug from him,” she finishes, and Tristram thinks that her voice has gone quiet and thick and it makes goosebumps break out all over his arms.

He wants that feeling to stop, so he glances out of the window to reorient himself and he feels sick all over again. They’ve passed the road to get to Emily’s and it’s not because her aunt has to do something for work. He _knows_ this. But what could it be?

“Where do you have to go for work?” Emily asks curiously, glancing out of the window. She’s clearly noticed that they’re not heading to her flat, which makes Tristram sigh in relief even as he watches her aunt’s eyes closely.

But this time, it’s not her eyes that give her away; rather, her face twitches into a fearful look—just for a split second—and her shoulders stiffen. Tristram wants to say something to Emily, somehow, but he doesn’t think she’ll believe him. That’s her aunt, after all, that she’s known all her life and he’s just the person she met two weeks ago that is a little strange. He has to do something, though. He’s just not sure what.

“I have to meet someone over by the Docklands,” she says, and Tristram notices her hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white. And he sees that she glances at him again and he understands.

This is about him, somehow. He’s not sure how, or why, but he knows it is because she wouldn’t keep glancing back at him like that if it wasn’t. The fact that she’s clearly lying adds to his certainty.

His father was right to make him promise and he was stupid—so, so stupid, more stupid than he’s ever been in his life—to not listen. He will never ignore what his father tells him ever again.

“Oh,” Emily says, “I’ve never been there before.”

Neither has Tristram, but he’s heard his father talk about it, on occasion; he knows that, even though some areas are full of people with money in places that have been recently renovated, there are still rough, scary areas full of abandoned warehouses with their windows smashed. He doesn’t want to go.

“We won’t be there long,” her aunt promises, and Tristram feels a shiver slide down his spine.

He has to think. There has to be a way for him to let someone know that something is wrong, that they need help. But how? He’d need a phone—which he doesn’t have—and he’s not in the right place to try and take it. Besides, his father hasn’t really taught him how to pickpocket yet, so he’d probably botch it.

“Well,” Emily says, looking at Tristram with a smile that starts to slip the moment she gets a look at his face, “are you sure you’re all right?”

He nods, looking at the mirror out of the corner of his eyes and sees Emily’s aunt watching them—watching _him_. Tristram tries to pretend not to notice, but he’s not sure if he’s doing a very good job of it.

She scrunches up her nose at him. “You don’t look it,” she says bluntly.

“Oh,” he says, biting his lip because he can’t say anything right now. It’s too quiet in the car and then Emily’s aunt will _know_ that he knows something is wrong and he doesn’t want that. “I’m okay,” he offers, and then has an idea, so he digs around in his bookbag until he finds some paper and a pen. “I was just bored. You want to play a game?” he asks her, trying his best to smile normally.

“Sure,” she says, smiling back at him.

“It’s a word game,” he explains, “that my teacher at my old school taught us to play on car rides. You take the last three letters on a registration plate and make as many words of them as you can.”

He hands her a sheet of paper and one of his pencils and points at a car that has the last three letters of DAR.

“You have 60 seconds to come up with them and then we trade papers to check them, okay?”

“Do they have to start with those three letters?” she asks him.

“No,” he says, “and they don’t even have to be together. They just have to be in that order in the word.”

“Okay,” she says with a nod, looking determined. And then she grins at him. “I’m going to be rubbish at this, I bet.”

He smiles despite himself and shakes his head. “Bet you win.”

“Will you time us?” Emily asks her aunt, who relaxes a bit and nods.

“Absolutely.”

Tristram thinks hard about what he’s going to write down, the best way to phrase what he’s going to say to Emily to convince her to do him a favour. And then he hears her aunt say, “Okay, Go!”

 _Pretend I played,_ he writes. _I need to text my father, but I don’t think your aunt will let me use her mobile. **I have to**. Can you get it for me? Say 17 if yes and 19 if no._ And then, because he still has time, he writes, _dare, daring, dark_.

“Time!” Emily’s aunt calls, and Tristram notices—worryingly—that they’re still moving east and the longer this takes, the farther any help will fall behind. But he calmly hands his paper over to Emily and takes hers in return.

Tristram looks down at her answers, but glances at his friend out of the corner of his eye and can pinpoint the exact moment she sees words that—if he’d actually played the game properly—shouldn’t be there. She’s smart, though, and—apart from a small frown—she doesn’t say anything. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was legitimately counting his paper.

He quickly counts up Emily’s words and looks up at her hopefully. “You have 18,” he says and bites his lip.

She glances up at him—wide-eyed—and says carefully, “You have 17.”

Tristram beams in relief at her. “I told you you’d do well.”

Emily nods. “Want to play again?” she asks, and Tristram stares at her, trying to work out if this is part of her plan to get the phone or not.

“Yes,” he says, and does his best to make sure it doesn’t sound like a question, sighing in relief when she smiles at him. “You won,” he tells her, “so you should pick the next one.”

“Okay,” she answers, looking out the window at the cars driving around them. Tristram is horrified to see, as they turn a corner, that they’re already in Whitechapel. His heart beats fast at this—they’re going much quicker than he anticipated and he knows that they’re closing in on Canary Wharf and, not long afterwards, the rest of the Docklands. He needs to get that phone, and he needs to get it soon.

“That one,” Emily says while pointing, and he spots a registration plate with the letters AMS.

“All right,” Tristram says and dutifully prepares his paper to play the game. He’s not even sure if he’s going to play or not. He’s so nervous, but he knows it has to look good or Emily’s aunt will get suspicious.

“Go!” her aunt calls and Tristram tries to think of words he can use. _Animals_ , he writes, _mammals, lamps, prams_. And then he pauses, because Emily suddenly bends over and gropes around near the floor.

“Wait, stop!” she exclaims, glancing at him meaningfully. “I’ve dropped my pencil.”

He hesitates and looks towards the front of the car where her aunt is peeking back at him through the mirror, when he has a plan. He does his best to look alarmed and points forward, “Watch out!”

The distraction is timed perfectly, because Emily’s aunt is snapping to attention and braking hard, just as Emily’s hand snakes into the front seat and plucks the mobile carefully from where her aunt left it after the mysterious call.

“Found it!” Emily says just as her aunt huffs in anger and panic.

“Don’t do that!” she almost yells, and Tristram finds himself shrinking back into his seat at her tone of voice. She’s scary when she’s angry and he really doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, but the distraction worked and he can’t argue with results. He wonders—briefly, before realising that such thoughts are potentially distracting—if his father would have been proud of his ability to act.

“Sorry,” he says meekly, “I thought I saw someone running across the road.”

The car has come to a complete stop in the interim, and Emily’s aunt has pulled to the side of the road to regain control of herself. She shakes her head, takes a deep breath, and merges back into traffic. He can already see the tall buildings of Canary Wharf looming ahead and his heart races. They’re getting very close now and, the closer they get, the faster his heart beats and the more his palms sweat.

Just as he’s worrying about how Emily is going to slip him the phone, he feels something against his thigh. He almost jumps before recognising that it’s the mobile. Snatching it up quickly, he hides it in his lap under his paper not a moment too soon, because Emily asks her aunt, “What happened?”

Tristram can feel the mobile there in his lap, like an itch, but he doesn’t dare reach for it when he’s almost certain that Emily’s aunt is going to look at him again. And she does, but only briefly before focusing on the road yet again. “Oh...nothing,” she says hesitantly after a moment. “Just a bit of a scare, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Emily says, and Tristram sees that she looks over at him while widening her eyes, so he does the same back so she knows to keep her aunt talking. At least, he hopes she understands that’s what he means.

“Aunt Claire, guess what? Mr Newton told me I got the highest grade in the class on my science project this morning,” Emily says proudly with a large smile.

“That’s wonderful, Ems,” her aunt responds, and Tristram can see—as he secrets the phone from his lap and onto the far side of his legs—that she’s trying to catch Emily’s eyes in the mirror; she looks more relaxed and happy than at any other point since she and Emily hugged out in front of the school. He’s impressed, too, but he’ll tell Emily later.

First, though, he focuses on the phone.

Biting his lip, he quickly turns the volume down just as Emily responds, “I’ve never done so well in science before. I think dad’ll be proud of me, don’t you?”

Luckily, Emily speaks loud enough that her voice covers the noise of the volume being muted. Tristram knows this because Emily’s aunt responds fondly, “I’m sure he will, love, though he’s always proud of you.”

Emily preens at this and Tristram works on understanding how the mobile functions so that he can send a text message. It isn’t difficult—there’s an obvious icon on the mobile’s default screen—and he scrolls through Emily’s aunt’s contacts while Emily keeps her talking. “He was really happy when I brought home that picture I drew of him and me and Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara and you.”

Tristram tunes out the rest of the conversation when he finally finds Doctor Watson’s contact info—it took him longer than he wanted because it was under Doctor Watson’s first name—and then hesitates a moment before typing in an additional mobile number:

 **To: John  
To: 07559588774**

He bites his lip and hesitates, wondering how he should word the message, but he doesn’t take too much time because he realises he doesn’t have much to work with. So he types out a quick message and looks it over before he sends it:

 **To: John  
To: 07559588774**

With Emily and her Aunt Claire. Heading to Docklands. 13 Factory Road. Something wrong. Don’t call or text. TH.

No doubt his father will be unhappy about the bad grammar, but it can’t be helped. He quickly sends the message and is about to erase it from the inbox when he thinks that he should, perhaps, give Emily’s dad his father’s number, just in case. So he opens a new message and types:

 **To: John**

Call 07559 588774. TH.

Tristram takes a deep breath and hopes it’s enough to warn them that they need help and they need it soon. And then he quickly deletes the messages from the phone’s memory, because it wouldn’t do for Emily’s aunt to discover them.

“...and Olivia told him off for being a bed wetter! It was so funny, Aunt Claire! His face turned all red and ugly and it would have been scary except everyone was laughing at him about it.”

“Oh, dear,” Emily’s aunt says, shaking her head as if she’s half-amused and half-exasperated, “it’s really not nice to laugh at other people like that.”

Tristram carefully slips the mobile to Emily, who looks over at him with wide eyes and a small smile. “He deserved it, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” he answers quietly, feeling a bit better, but not completely since he’s just told his father that he disobeyed him. Still, he’ll happily take any punishment dished out so long as both he and Emily are okay when it’s all said and done.

Just then, the car dives into a dark tunnel and Tristram breathes a sigh of relief that he’s finished with the mobile; in the tunnel—which looks to be long and dark—not only would there probably not be a signal to send the messages, but the glow from the mobile’s display would have given him away. It’s a close call, though, and his heart is still hammering in his chest.

“He’s such a jerk,” he hears Emily say, and a moment later he discerns movement next to him; clearly Emily is putting the phone back where she got it from, her aunt none the wiser, and some of the tension in his muscles relaxes. In the dark, at least, Emily’s aunt can’t look at him and that’s good because the fact that she keeps glancing at him escalates the nerves he feels. And he has a feeling it’s going to be important that he be able to think and he won’t be capable of that if he keeps getting distracted by how scared he is.

“Emily,” her aunt says, almost scolding, but certainly fond, “just because someone is a jerk doesn’t mean you should embarrass them. You know, they could be a jerk because someone embarrassed them or made them feel bad and they had to defend themselves.”

Emily snorts as though this isn’t applicable in Sebastian’s case—Tristram certainly agrees with her—and says, “It doesn’t give him the right to beat up other people.”

“You’re right,” her aunt responds just as they leave the tunnel. Tristram can see the tall buildings of Canary Wharf off to one side and a feeling of dread settles on him; they can’t be far now if their destination is somewhere in the Docklands area, and the closer they get, the less probable it is that either his father or Emily’s dad is going to show up in time for whatever is supposed to happen.

And what, Tristram wonders, is supposed to happen, anyway? What is this all about? He knows it has to be about him, an easy deduction to make since Emily’s aunt keeps looking at him as though she’s been told she has to keep an eye on him, as if he’s dangerous somehow.

He has to think, he needs to clear his mind like his father told him, to not just see but _observe_. The evidence is there, he knows it’s there, and it’s up to him to interpret it because his father isn’t here. Tristram wishes he were, desperately, but he’s not; he’ll have to do the best he can. And to do that, he has to think. There may be something that he’s not considering that could change things, make it possible for everything to turn out just fine.

It’s scary, knowing that it’s his responsibility to take on this task, this huge, seemingly impossible task; he very nearly panics, overwhelmed and frightened by such responsibility. He turns to Emily because he’s scared, and when he looks at her he knows that he has to protect her as she would do for him. And that helps clear the panic a little. There’s a blankness that overtakes him. It’s a relaxing, freeing sensation, being able to focus inward—like a microscope when his father studies cultures and samples, how he twists the objective lenses into place, so he can magnify and see all the little details that the human eye is otherwise incapable of seeing.

For Emily’s sake, and for his own, he ignores the outside world, the conversation that Emily and her aunt are having and explores this new sensation, the sharpness of his mind, the way the past comes alive in his head—bright, bold colours that he can scrutinise or disregard at will.

He loses track of time, of himself, and he analyzes the evidence, all the little clues that he couldn’t make sense of before, and when he feels the car come to a stop, he thinks he has it. There may be one or two things—his father says there’s always something, even for him—but he thinks he has the shape of things.

And if he’s right then he’s at a loss as to what to do. Their only hope is the text messages he sent to their parents.

“We’re here,” Emily’s aunt says and Tristram blinks, feels that calm, tranquil state leave him and he desperately wishes it would come back. It doesn’t because the building she’s looking at makes his heart pound fiercely in his chest and his blood race frantically in his veins.

It’s an old warehouse—brick, abandoned, with broken windows. It’s tall, too, and it looks scary, like a monster ready to swallow him whole.

“Emily,” her aunt tells her, and then hesitates briefly before saying, “I need you to stay in the car. Tristram, please come with me.”


	19. Chapter Nineteen

“What? Why?” Emily demands at the same time that Tristram shakes his head emphatically. He doesn’t want to go in there. The building is scary looking, like something out of a nightmare, and he certainly doesn’t want to go in there without his friend and with a woman whom he doesn’t trust at all.

“Look,” Emily’s aunt says, and Tristram notes that she’s glancing around, as though expecting that someone is watching them, “I don’t have time to debate it with you two...”

“But if this is for work, how come I can’t go and Tris can?” Emily asks with a frown. The way she’s phrased her question puts Tristram on edge; what if she’s just upset because she thinks that he gets to go on an adventure and she doesn’t? What if she doesn’t think there’s anything suspicious about her aunt’s behaviour? Surely, she must see that the request is off, not at all normal.

“Don’t argue, Emily, please,” her aunt says, anxiously. She unbuckles her seatbelt, her eyes darting around at their surroundings, the long grass on one side of the narrow road and the tall, looming brick building on the other. Tristram can’t help himself and glances around, too, wondering nervously what she’s looking for. _Or whom_ , Tristram thinks, and that thought doesn’t comfort him at all. “Come on, Tristram.”

Tristram stays where he is, even though his instinct is to listen to adults. But he’s got himself into this situation by trusting an adult that he shouldn’t have, and so he’s going to try and get himself—and Emily—out by not listening.

“Tristram,” her aunt says, more firmly. “We have to go.”

“Why?”

“Please don’t ask, I can’t—” she says and she sounds edgy. Almost panicky, he thinks, and it strengthens his resolve to stay where he is.

“You said this was for work,” Emily pipes up, her brows furrowed in thought, “but if it is, how come Tris has to go?”

Her aunt is silent and watches them through the mirror before she takes a deep breath and turns around, the smile stretching her lips more like a grimace. “I was telling a co-worker of mine all about you, Tris, and-and your father. He wants to meet you.”

Tristram feels the hair on the back of his neck rise and the scary thing is that he thinks she’s telling the truth. Or, at least, she’s not obviously lying. He shivers and shakes his head. “No,” he says, for emphasis, even though it comes out shakier than he’d like.

The smile melts from her face, twists into a look that reminds him of the fear he felt the very first day of school, before he knew Emily, before he had a friend. The terror of having bullies close in on you and back you into a corner, the sinking feeling of being trapped. That flash of emotion is gone almost before he registers it, smoothing out into a distant sort of annoyance. But Tristram knows better; it’s fear that’s fuelling her actions, and he shivers at the thought of what might happen if she gets desperate.

“I’m not joking, Tristram Holmes,” she says, trying to put as much warning and authority into her voice as she can and it works, because he shudders. “We have to go.”

“Why are you afraid?” he blurts out at her. The question clearly catches her off-guard, if the brief look of shock on her face is anything to go by.

“What?”

“You’re scared of something,” he says, glad his voice doesn’t shake nearly as much this time. It’s getting easier to speak when he’s sure enough of what he’s saying.

She opens her mouth to speak—Tristram thinks that she’s probably going to try and deny what he said—but she can’t seem to get the words out, as if they’re lodged in her throat. After a short pause, she closes her mouth and simply stares at him, eyes wide. He realises, with a jolt, that he’s just deduced her, even in the face of his fear. It’s a heady feeling; he _knows_ he’s right and he wonders if this is what his father experiences when he synthesises evidence into a narrative, when he pulls disparate facts together and creates a picture of what has happened or what will happen.

“Are you afraid, Aunt Claire?” Emily asks innocently, looking at her aunt in confusion and concern.

“What—of _course_ not!” her aunt says, having apparently recovered her voice. “Why would I be?”

But the denial sounds weak to Tristram’s ears and he attempts to answer her question, even as he wonders if it’s not one of those questions that adults seem to ask when they don’t mean to; Tristram, though, has always been taught that one should strive to answer questions put to them.

“Is it because you don’t want Doctor Watson to find out?” he asks hesitantly, more unsure about this part of his deductions. He’s given everything that’s happened in the last two weeks ample thought while on his way to this place, and he thinks there’s enough evidence to support the assertions that Emily’s other aunts were making during the dinner on Wednesday night. He had pushed his mind, normally prone to shying away from uncomfortable remembrances, to remember in detail the events of that night. He’s mostly certain that they were right, but he’s still not completely sure. Tristram wishes again that his father was here, if for no other reason than he would be able to tell him if he had it right or not.

Emily’s Aunt Claire gapes at him, eyes wide. “What?” she asks, her voice rising in pitch and volume. Her hands clutch subconsciously at her heart and she leans away from him—all signs he is able to take in and process, signs which make him slightly more confident about his conclusions.

“You don’t want him to know what you’re doing,” Tristram says, eyeing Emily’s aunt warily. “That’s why you didn’t pick up when he called.”

“I thought that was odd,” Emily says, looking back and forth between the two of them. “You never ignore Dad’s calls.”

“I-I,” Emily’s aunt starts to stutter, clearly not sure what to say, but she takes a deep breath and tries to regain her composure. “Look, it doesn’t matter, I _told_ you he was fine earlier—”

“But you were lying,” Tristram interrupts, feeling daring for doing so.

Her brow furrows and she opens her mouth, but Tristram continues, “You did, because you looked down and to the left, which my father says is an indication of—”

“Shut up!” she yells, her knuckles white where they’re balled into fists against her collarbone, her lips thin and her breath coming fast and rough. “Just shut up,” she says coldly, and Tristram shivers at her tone. He chances a glance over at Emily, who looks just as stunned and cowed as he feels. He gulps, that feeling of dread starting to creep in on him again.

“Now,” she says, staring at him, “enough talking. We have to go in.”

“Why?” Emily asks faintly, sounding younger than she’s ever sounded to Tristram before. That, more than anything, is terrifying, because Emily Watson wasn’t built for fear, not at all. It feels completely wrong.

“We just do,” her aunt says firmly, and Tristram notices that she’s not looking Emily in the eye. “Now get out of the car. Both of you.”

Emily scrambles to get out of the car—clearly she’s afraid of her aunt in this moment—and Tristram has no choice but to get out himself, though he does so reluctantly. He keeps thinking that if only he can keep her talking, buy his father some time to get here...

And then a thought occurs to him, so suddenly, that he nearly stumbles in shock. He halts his feet and stares at Emily’s aunt in horror, because that moment has finally happened for him, the one where all the deductions coalesce into a large picture—still with some pieces missing, but they’re background ones; everything in the foreground is clear and obvious and they are in more danger than he’d feared.

“It was you,” he whispers, the terror he’d mostly been able to keep at bay returning with a vengeance, crawling under his skin up his spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

He sees Emily give him a confused look but, from the way that her aunt halts in her tracks and doesn’t turn around, he knows he’s right. He’s right and he doesn’t know what to do. How do you break that kind of news to your best friend, that your mum was killed by her own sister? Your aunt, one of the most important people in your life, deprived you of having a mother?

Tristram watches, distantly, as she turns around and faces him, her face devoid of colour and feeling. Blank, and he shivers. “Did your father tell you?” Her voice is cold and hard and he clenches his hands together to stop them from shaking.

He shakes his head, unable to look away. “No,” he whispers, and another piece falls into place. “That’s why you left on Wednesday,” he croaks, almost unable to make his voice work, “because he told you he knew and you were angry.”

She shakes her head, a small smile on her face, but it’s not friendly and she doesn’t seem to find his words at all humorous. “Of course,” she says, and then the smile drops off her face and she stares down at him. “How did you know?”

“Tris? What are you guys talking about?” Emily asks him, gently tugging on his sleeve. He gulps, because he doesn’t know how to say it and he bites his lip when he sees her aunt narrow her eyes at him.

“Go ahead, Tris. Why don’t you tell her?”

“Emily,” he says, looking down at the ground, unable to look at her because of how afraid he is of what he’ll see. “Your aunt killed your mum.”

“I didn’t kill her!” Emily’s aunt snarls immediately, but she doesn’t say anything more, offers no other denial or explanation.

“What?” Emily whispers brokenly, and Tristram winces, feeling absolutely wretched. He shouldn’t be telling her this. It should be someone else, someone who can do it better than he can. “Aunt Claire?” she asks, sounding lost.

Tristram looks up at Emily’s aunt, his limbs trembling due to a combination of fear, nerves, and sadness. She doesn’t look at him, though—doesn’t look at Emily, either. She looks off to the east, and she remains quiet. Tristram knows he’ll have to say something. He forces himself to look at his friend. “She did it,” he says quietly to her, trying to convey how sorry he is that he’s the one telling her this.

“No,” Emily denies, but there’s a quiver of uncertainty in her voice. “She can’t have,” she says, only a hair more decisively. “Right?” she asks, after no one says anything, looking between them with increasing desperation.

Tristram is angry because Emily’s aunt won’t look at her, and she _should_ , because she is responsible. “The ringtone,” he says suddenly, and both Emily and her aunt look at him, though he thinks he sees something like guilt behind Emily’s aunt’s guarded expression. Emily just looks confused. “Doctor Watson’s ringtone,” he explains, “it’s about love. You’re in love with him.”

Emily’s aunt looks at him as though he’s just punched her, and Emily looks dazed.

“You’re in love with him,” he says again, “and you were jealous. You want him all to yourself, so that’s why you kill—”

“I didn’t kill her!” her aunt screams, stepping closer to him. Tristram backs up two steps, eyes wide in fear, but that doesn’t stop her; the dam seems to have finally broken, and the words rush out. “It wasn’t me! I wanted her dead, yes,” she says, and Emily recoils as though she’s been slapped. “But that’s not the only reason,” she continues, snarling at them. Tristram reaches out for Emily’s hand and grips it tightly. He doesn’t complain when Emily’s hand squeezes so hard he feels like the bones might shatter. “You have no idea about anything, little boy,” she finishes, looming over them menacingly.

“If it wasn’t you,” Tristram forces himself to say, “then who was it?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaims forcefully. “I just…paid for it. Listen,” she says, the truly menacing aspect of her demeanour vanishing, replaced by a nervous and pale woman, “do you know the stories about monsters that roam the dark? About boogeymen that hide in your wardrobe or under your bed and wait to come out and get you?”

Tristram shivers, the intensity of her voice sending chills up and down his spine, making him squeeze Emily’s hand just as tightly as she’s squeezing his.

“They’re real. _He’s_ real. And if you think _I’m_ scary, you’ve not seen anything yet.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” he asks after a long pause, Emily’s hand in his the only thing stopping him from shaking.

He sees Emily’s aunt open her mouth to respond, but another voice speaks instead.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?”

What little colour was left in Emily’s aunt’s face drains rapidly and her body goes still before turning slowly to face the newcomer.

Tristram peeks around Emily’s aunt and gulps. The man standing there is medium height and powerfully built, with clearly defined muscles. His features are dark—his skin very tan, his hair dark brown and cut short in a military style—and he has a strong jaw and a nose that looks like it’s been broken at least once. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and the only identifying features that Tristram can make out from this distance are a scar along the right side of the man’s jaw and a tattoo of some kind on the man’s bicep.

The man is walking towards them from the building and he’s got a smile on his face that looks like the kind of expression that would be more at home on a shark, or possibly a lion—something big and predatory. Tristram thinks he’s beginning to understand what Emily’s aunt was talking about.

“This looks like a fun little garden party,” the man says, and Tristram is fairly certain he’s from London, though he’s not as good at placing accents as his father. He’s not sure, but it’s a rough, broad accent, perhaps from East or South London. What he _is_ certain of, though, is that he’s getting more frightened by the second.

No one says anything for a moment—there’s a tension, a stillness in the air as though everything and everyone is holding their breath, waiting to see what will happen next—and Tristram feels Emily’s shoulder bump his slightly, which is reassuring in its own way. Then the man’s smile slides off his face, leaving a hard, cold look in its wake.

“You’re late,” he says to Emily’s aunt and Tristram can tell, from behind, that the woman is terrified of this man from the way she’s holding herself.

“I’m sorry, Gus,” she says, her voice cracking a bit.

“The Colonel’s not going to be happy,” the man says in response, and Tristram sees Emily’s aunt shudder in front of him.

“We-we still have time,” she says after a moment, but the man just gives her a hard look.

“We best not waste it, then,” the man says—no, commands, really—and then he strides forward and before Tristram has time to react, grabs him by the arm and yanks him forward.

It happens so quickly, almost too quickly for him to process. He thinks, instinctively, that he should fight, but he’s so scared, the calm that he’d felt while in the car is completely shattered and it’s like he’s being faced by Sebastian and all of his friends—no, it’s like being faced with a whole _army_ of Sebastians, and he feels helpless. All he can think is _please, Father, hurry!_

Emily, though, tugs hard on his hand, trying to pull him away from the man and, while he appreciates it, it hurts and she’s no match for the man’s strength. “Let him go!”

The man doesn’t even stop to acknowledge her, merely saying to her aunt, “Keep her out of my way, or I may tie her up, too.”

“Emily,” her aunt says sharply, more than a hint of fear in her voice, “please stop—”

“No!” Emily shouts, not letting go of Tristram’s hand, and he’s ridiculously pleased, even though it means she’s being dragged to the scary building with him by this terrifying man. “I’m not listening to you!”

Tristram cranes his head back to see that Emily looks fierce, her face blotchy and her blue eyes rimmed red; he can tell there are tracks down her face and he squeezes her hand because it’s the only thing he can do.

“Getting rid of your sister didn’t work out for you, hmm?” the man asks, sounding viciously amused.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tristram can see Emily’s aunt visibly flinch, but she doesn’t say anything to the man. This seems, oddly, to goad him. “What do you think your brother-in-law is going to think when he finds out?”

“He won’t believe it,” she says, but there’s no fight in her voice. She only sounds despairing and Tristram thinks the man can tell, because he simply laughs at her.

“Stupid bitch,” he murmurs, clearly amused, and Tristram knows enough to know that that’s a word you’re not supposed to say. It’s on the tip of his tongue to say as much, but the fact that they’re in the building and heading towards a chair in the middle of an empty, decrepit room holds him back.

The inside is every bit as scary as Tristram imagined it to be; the ceilings are high—almost impossible to see from ground level—and there’s broken glass everywhere. The floor isn’t smooth, but covered in debris of every kind: plaster, glass, rocks, trash, and metal. It looks as if it’s an abandoned factory building, though he doesn’t know how long it’s been empty. Long enough, obviously. It’s exactly the sort of huge, empty room that he was afraid it would be.

“Let him go,” Emily says, still holding onto his hand and Tristram can tell she’s putting as much effort into pulling him back as she can, but it’s not making a whit of difference. The chair is looming closer and though it looks ordinary, Tristram is scared of it. Something bad is going to happen if he ends up in that chair, not least because there are loops of thick, sturdy looking rope on the ground near the legs. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what they’re there for.

“Claire, do something about the brat or I will,” the man growls at her, no longer sounding amused.

“Emily,” her aunt says to her, almost pleadingly, but Emily interrupts.

“Shut up! You killed my mum!”

More than anything, Tristram wants to make the man stop dragging him. He wants to turn around and do something— _anything_ —to help his friend. She sounds so upset. It’s not right, none of this is right at all, because if life were fair he’d be able to say the perfect thing to help her but he can’t.

They’ve reached the chair.

“Leave him alone!” Emily yells at the man, trying with all her might to get him to stop pulling. Tristram’s left arm and shoulder are aching, and he finally starts trying to fight, to get away somehow. It’s not working because the man is strong, but he has to try. He doesn’t want to sit in the chair.

“Claire,” the man growls warningly, and in the next instant Tristram feels Emily’s hand wrenched away from his, hears her yell bloody murder and sees her struggle against her aunt, but he can’t do anything to help her. The man bodily lifts and carries him to the chair and easily—without breaking a sweat, seemingly—tosses him on to it, tying him down quickly and efficiently.

“Why are you doing this?” Tristram asks, squirming in the chair, trying his best not to panic.

The man grins. “Your da’s got someone’s attention. My employer, in fact.”

Tristram gulps, because all the squirming in the world is not going to get him out of these knots and he’s now close enough to see the tattoo on the man’s bicep; it’s a terrifying tiger, mid-roar, and the art is so well done that it looks as though it could burst off the man’s skin and sink it’s claws and teeth right into him. Tristram averts his eyes. “The colonel?” he asks, his voice shaking.

“Among others,” the man says with a smirk that’s all teeth. “And if you want my advice, you won’t move around so much. You won’t like the consequences.”

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, his heart thudding in his chest. _Please, Father, hurry._

The man sends him a calculating glance and then leans in close. “Your da is sticking his nose in where it don’t belong.”

Tristram really wants to correct the man—it’s _doesn’t_ , not _don’t_ , after all—but he doesn’t dare.

“You just remember how afraid you are, my lad, and you tell your da he ought to do something else for a change, if he values his life. Or yours.”

Tristram gulps and his palms sweat while the man laughs at him, though it’s not as unkind as it could be. “Oh, don’t be like that,” the man says, leaning down. “You just keep your chin up, my boy; don’t let those bitches see you be anything less than a real man, you got me?”

He doesn’t understand, but he knows that showing emotion is a bad thing; his father despises it, and he thinks this is what the man must mean, though he knows that girls shouldn’t be called bitches because it’s not a nice word. He nods, even though he knows it’s wrong, because he wants the man—Gus, he has to remember that the man is Gus and he works for a Colonel of some kind, his father will want to know that—to leave him alone.

The man grins at him and ruffles his hair, but he doesn’t like it when the man does it, only Emily can ruffle his hair like that. And then he walks away, over towards where Emily is being held back unwillingly by her aunt.

Tristram’s heart catches in his throat, because Emily is crying, kicking, writhing—doing anything she can to get out of the arms that hold her tight—and she looks miserable and Tristram _hates_ that look on her face. Hates it more than anything.

“Tris!” Emily cries out. “Are you okay?”

He nods. “Yeah,” he says, his voice cracking a bit because he’s not hurt, but he’s frightened, much more than he can say.

“Everything is set,” the man says to Emily’s aunt, “I’d get the hell out if I were you.” And then he matches his actions to his words and leaves the building, though not before throwing a wink and a shark-like grin at Tristram.

He gulps.

“Come on, Ems,” her aunt says, worriedly, “we have to go.”

“No! I’m not going anywhere with you. And I won’t leave Tris!” Emily shouts emphatically, and redoubles her effort to escape her aunt’s grip and make her way over to Tristram.

“We can’t be here. We have to leave,” her aunt responds and starts trying to drag her to the exit, but Emily has apparently had enough; Tristram sees her flail her arms and thinks that her elbow connects rather forcefully with her aunt’s jaw.

Tristram’s not sure, exactly; all he knows is that one moment, Emily is squirming and writhing in her aunt’s grip, and the next her aunt’s head is snapping back with a cry and Emily is running over to him.

“Tris, Tris, are you okay?” she asks breathlessly as she reaches him, and he sees her pluck desperately at the knots holding him to the chair. “It’s going to be okay,” she says, but she sounds just as scared as he is and her hands are shaking.

He wants to reassure her, or tell her that their parents should surely be close by now—that he sent them a message and they’ll be here very soon, of course they will, any minute now—but he can’t because he sees Emily’s aunt rushing over towards them, sees her yank Emily’s hair, pull her back and away from him.

“No! Listen to me, we have to go. We have to go _now_!” Emily’s aunt grips her arms hard; hard enough, Tristram thinks, to bruise and it makes him angry. How dare she—

“Let. Me. Go! You killed Mum, I’m not going with you!”

And then, Tristram watches in absolute horror as Emily’s aunt whirls her around and _shakes_ her. Violently.

“Stop it, Emily! Do as I say.”

Time seems to slow for Tristram as he watches his friend’s hair whip back and forth, sees her head snapping to and fro; hears her cry out in pain and anguish. His blood boils and he can’t make himself hold still. Nothing on earth, at this moment, can make him hold still, and so he struggles mightily in his chair, twisting determinedly to get free, to get to Emily, to make that awful woman _stop_.

He feels his legs collide with the legs of the chair repeatedly as he thrashes madly, trying so hard to get free, to get to Emily, to save her.

Even his fear, in this moment, is overcome because nothing is more important to him than seeing Emily safe.

“Stop it!” he screams, struggling as hard as he can, the heels of his feet scraping against the chair legs, against the trash-strewn ground, doing anything to get some purchase. “Stop it!” It’s not working, but it has to—it _has_ to.

Emily’s aunt seems surprised at the vehemence in his tone, at how angry he sounds and she stops the shaking, though she keeps her grip on Emily’s shoulders. Then she sees what Tristram is up to, what he’s doing, and her eyes widen.

“No, don’t! You’ll set off the bomb!”

They all freeze, and Tristram can’t breathe. A bomb? He’s strapped to a bomb?

And that’s when he hears it: a faint beeping sound, like the noise an alarm makes when it first goes off.

The beeping is regular. Predictable.

Counting down.

“A bomb?” Emily asks, her eyes widen and fearful.

“We have to get out,” her aunt says, not answering the question exactly, but her non-answer speaks volumes.

Tristram struggles and he can feel panic clawing at his ribs and he wants to cry. He wants his father to be there, now, more than he’s ever wanted anything in his whole life.

“I won’t leave him,” Emily whispers, her voice shuddering with fear.

“Please don’t leave me,” he begs, because he doesn’t want to be alone, he doesn’t want to _die_.

“Emily, now, please,” her aunt says, and wraps her arms around her, wrenches her hard away from Tristram.

They’re going to leave him, he thinks wildly. Her aunt is stronger than her, is bigger than her, and will eventually pull them completely out of the building, no matter how hard Emily fights.

And he doesn’t want to be alone, but he wants her to be safe. He wants that cool, calm logic to descend on him, to take the panic away and to point out that of course the best thing is for no one else to be in the building. He wants to deduce the history of the building, imagine the time travel experiment that he and Emily were going to run, because if he thinks about those things, he won’t panic or cry. Maybe he won’t even be scared, if he can think about something else. Anything else.

Tristram tries to block out the sounds that Emily is making—how hard she’s fighting—because if he thinks about it, he’ll panic and the fear will overwhelm him. But he can’t ignore her cry of pain, and he struggles automatically, tries his best to get free because he can’t stand the sound of Emily in pain.

“Stop.”

He hears the voice and hope swells within him because standing there at the entrance to the room is his father, looking in control and _angry_. And right behind him is Doctor Watson.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter. The last one should be posted later today.

They’ve come, and Tristram begins to hope that it’s going to be okay, because his father always knows best and Doctor Watson will protect them all. He just knows it.

“Father!” he calls out in relief. His father walks quickly over to him and kneels in front of him, looking him over. He doesn’t even seem to notice or mind that he’s kneeling in trash and debris, and Tristram’s heart swells in relief and happiness.

“Dad!” he distantly hears Emily call, and he would look over to her to make sure that she’s safe in her dad’s arms, but his father has his full attention.

“You’re not injured,” his father states, and Tristram is amazed to hear something like relief in his voice.

He shakes his head in response, even though he knows it’s not necessary. His father doesn’t seem to mind.

“It’s a bomb,” he says, his voice shaking with the amount of emotion he’s feeling.

“Yes,” his father responds, and Tristram can tell he’s thinking. “John,” his father says, after a moment. “I need you to come over here.”

“But what about--”

“Get them outside to Mycroft. Then hurry back. We haven’t much time.”

“Right,” Doctor Watson answers, and Tristram thinks he sounds grim.

“You’ve got to help Tris, Dad,” Emily says, and her voice sounds muffled. Tristram looks around his father, who seems deep in thought, and sees that Emily has her face buried in her father’s stomach, her arms wrapped tightly around him. Doctor Watson, for his part, is hugging his daughter very close, his hands running restlessly over her hair.

“I will,” he promises, and then he looks up and glares at Emily’s aunt.

“John,” she says brokenly, her face pale and scared, her expression imploring him to understand or to forgive.

But Tristram thinks, with another glance at Doctor Watson, that she doesn’t have a chance. He’s never seen a man look so angry, so _furious_ as Doctor Watson does now.

“Don’t. Just don’t.” Doctor Watson speaks quietly, but the edge in his voice could cut steel and Tristram sees Emily’s aunt swallow harshly.

“But--”

“John. _Now_.”

Doctor Watson doesn’t say anything, but he grabs Emily’s aunt roughly by the arm and hauls her outside, while—at the same time—he gently holds Emily’s hand in his other. Tristram watches them leave and breathes a sigh of relief that Emily is safe.

“Tristram, look at me.”

He does. Focusing on his father’s calm face is soothing and familiar. It’s not relaxing, exactly, but it makes everything feel less frightening. His father will know what to do, as always.

“I want you to tell me about the experiment you and your friend are planning to run.”

“You do?” he asks, just to be certain.

“Yes.”

Tristram bites his lip and forces his mind to focus on the time travel experiment, rather than the danger. It’s not easy, but his father is carefully poking the ropes that bind him to the chair and that touch, that connection, helps. It makes him feel safer than he did, clears his mind and makes it easier to think.

“Okay,” he says, and clears his throat. “Emily is going to be the main scientist and I’ll be her assistant because she’s experimented with time travel before and she knows more about it than me. But I know more about experimenting than her, so I’ll help her with that.”

His father hums at him in a way that Tristram knows means that he’s listening, but that he’s trying very hard to concentrate. So he keeps talking.

“Emily told me she’s got a box to use,” he says, and he feels more and more confident as he talks, though the fear is still lurking in the background. “It’s a shoe box, which is too small, but we have to start somewhere. We’re going to paint it blue.”

Tristram breaks off there because he hears footsteps on the debris that covers the floor and looks up from his father’s face to see Doctor Watson hurrying over to them.

“Tris, are you all right?” he asks as soon as he reaches them.

He nods, biting his lip. “No one hurt me.”

“Good,” Doctor Watson says, and he looks like he’s in pain himself but trying to hold it in. “I’m so sorry, Tris. I had no idea...” he trails off, and then glances over at Tristram’s father, before clearing his throat. “That is, I had no idea you or Emily would be put in this kind of danger.”

“John,” Tristram’s father speaks up, his voice sounding tight and urgent, “you can apologise later. I need you to move around behind this chair and tell me what you see.”

Doctor Watson seems to hesitate for a moment—a look that Tristran can’t even begin to interpret overcoming his face, but it might be a very strange combination of guilt, pain, and irritation, with some other look that he can’t identify, doesn’t have enough data for—but then Doctor Watson disappears from view.

Tristram tries to stay calm and focused, just like his father, but it’s extremely difficult with the constant beeping—regular and inexorable.

“This can’t be right,” Doctor Watson says from behind him.

“The wires?” his father asks.

“Yeah. How did you...”

“Not now. The wires are dummies.”

“I know,” Doctor Watson answers, sounding calm. “Sherlock…”

“Yes?”

“There’s a timer.”

Tristram sees a flash of irritation cross his father’s face—the sort of look that usually accompanies his father saying something particularly scathing and demeaning to people—but surprisingly his father doesn’t, this time. “Obviously,” he says, but he doesn’t seem very annoyed, at least, not like he usually is. “What does it say?”

There’s a pause—Doctor Watson doesn’t answer right away—and Tristram can feel his heart speed up again, thumping in his throat and his ears and it’s hard to breathe. “Are you sure--”

“I wouldn’t have asked,” his father snaps, losing his patience, “if I didn’t want to know.”

Doctor Watson hesitates. “Three minutes,” he answers, his voice strained.

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, only three minutes? The ticking sounds louder now, echoing in his ears, and he starts to fidget in his chair, wanting to be untied, wanting to _run_.

“Tristram. Look at me.”

He tries, he tries _so hard_ , but his vision is suddenly blurry, there’s wetness on his face, and his lungs don’t seem to be working properly. Everything seems to be getting darker and his breathing sounds loud to his ears, but not louder than the constant ticking, ticking, ticking—

Suddenly, he feels strong, capable hands on his shoulders and he starts, not expecting to be touched. “Tris, can you purse your lips for me? Like you’re going to blow a bubble.”

He purses his lips, but he doesn’t feel like he can get enough air, his lungs are burning. And then he feels the hands on his shoulders rub slightly and it’s distracting—just enough that he almost forgets to keep his lips pursed. Almost, but not quite.

“Now take a deep breath, nice and slow, okay?” Doctor Watson’s voice and hands are soothing, and he does as Emily’s dad asks. He breathes in and holds it.

“Now breathe out, nice and slow.”

He breathes out and it’s a little less dim, though still blurry.

“I want you to do that again, all right?”

So he breathes in slowly, holds it, and breathes out again. And breathing is getting easier, now, his lungs hurt less, and he does it once more. It helps a little, as does the fact that those solid, safe hands don’t leave his shoulders.

It’s mostly better, now.

“Just keep that up, okay, Tris? Your father and I are going to get you out of here, but I want you to concentrate on breathing just like that. Can you do that?”

Doctor Watson’s voice is so calm and soothing, and he thinks that concentrating on breathing like this will be easy enough, so he nods.

“Good, that’s good. You’re doing really well, Tris.”

He nods, and breathes in. He holds it, and breathes out. It’s better, it’s getting better.

“Ah,” his father says, and Tristram’s vision clears enough to see that his father is closely inspecting the chair he’s sitting in.

“What is it?” Doctor Watson asks, his voice still level and calm, and Tristram breathes in, holds, and breathes out.

“The trigger is in the chair legs,” his father says, and then he feels his father’s hand squeeze his knee. He’s surprised, but it’s comforting—almost as comforting as the feel of Doctor Watson’s hands on his shoulders. “Continue, Tristram. What’s the next step in your experiment?”

Before he can open his mouth to answer, though, Doctor Watson is speaking. “Does that mean we can untie the rope?”

“No,” his father answers, “we’ll have to cut it. It was tied in an overhand knot, which means it’s jammed because of the strain. Carefully, though; we can’t afford to lose any additional time, which is exactly what will happen if the chair legs are touched. Continue,” his father adds, looking at him.

He bites his lip and shakes his head. “That’s all we’ve worked out so far.”

His father hums thoughtfully. “Hold the chair steady,” he directs Doctor Watson, and Tristram feels the man’s hands leave his shoulders. He concentrates on his breathing—in, hold, out—as he watches his father remove a knife and begin efficiently and carefully cutting the ropes that bind him to the chair. He doesn’t have to be told to hold still, which is good because his father would never tell him something so obvious.

“Father,” he says, as his father retrieves a knife from his coat and begins carefully and quickly cutting the rope that binds his legs together. “There was a man.”

“Hmm, yes,” his father says. “Ex-army.”

Tristram is not good enough to be so precise yet, but he nods anyway. “He was the one who tied me up.”

“How on earth do you know he was ex-army?” Doctor Watson asks, keeping his voice steady, though even Tristram can tell he’s baffled.

“These knots—obviously tied by someone bigger and stronger than either Tristram or your daughter—and they were made recently, since the knot is jammed, but the rope isn’t exhibiting much wear. The rope is typical army issue.”

“He kept referring to a man called The Colonel,” Tristram adds, wanting to verify his father’s deductions and keep his mind off the time ticking down. He doesn’t want to think about how much time is left. Breathe in, hold, breath out.

“What did he look like?” his father asks, sounding for all the world as if they were walking along the street together, playing their favourite game.

It helps. He breathes in, holds it, breathes out. “He was 5’9, I think, with loads of muscles. And he was tan, with dark eyes and dark hair, cut short.”

“Like a military haircut?” Doctor Watson asks, still holding the chair steady as his father has finished cutting the ropes around his legs and has moved them so that his knees are locked and his legs are extending out straight in front of him.

He nods, breathes in, holds. Breathes out. “He had a tattoo,” he continues, and shivers, remembering how ferocious and scary the tiger had looked. “It was of a tiger, roaring.”

“Do you know which species?” his father asks, still closely inspecting his work on the rope.

“No,” he says, apologetically. “But Emily’s aunt said his name was Gus,” Tristram adds, and then he shivers and remembers to breathe slowly. “He called Emily a bad word.”

“What?” Doctor Watson asks, sharply. “What did he say?”

“He called her a brat,” Tristram says, feeling angry just thinking about it. And that helps, too, because he isn’t so scared when he’s angry. “And a b-word.” He doesn’t mention that the man called Emily’s aunt that, too; after the look Doctor Watson gave her before hauling her out of the room, he doesn’t think Doctor Watson would care.

Tristram hears Doctor Watson mutter angrily under his breath, but his hands don’t move.

“How much time?” his father asks testily.

“Shit!” Doctor Watson curses, and the focus that Tristram has from the anger and the breathing almost completely shatters. He has to breathe slowly, evenly, breathe out slowly. He can do this, he won’t panic, he _won’t_. “One minute, fifteen seconds.”

His father narrows his eyes and starts sawing at the rope faster and it’s coming undone, but Tristram’s afraid it’s not happening fast enough. He tells himself that his father’s always right, that he’ll get them out of this now, that he’s not going to die—none of them are—they’re all going to make it outside to Emily and Uncle Mycroft and everything is going to be okay.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

And then, after what seems like hours, but must be seconds, the final rope snaps free and he feels his father’s arms around him, hauling him carefully and quickly away from the chair.

He instinctively wraps his arms and legs around his father as tight as he can, and suddenly they’re running, Doctor Watson a step behind them as they make for the door as quick as they can.

They clear the door, still running, and Tristram can see over his father’s shoulder. He watches to see what will happen, despite his fear and his heart pounding hard in his chest. He can see Doctor Watson’s face looking determined and grim as they run, can hear his father breathing, and he can see the building, getting further away, but still too close. He doesn’t know much about bombs, but he thinks they’re still too close if the building blows up.

They’re running up the road, feet pounding on the asphalt, and it still hasn’t gone off yet, which is good, but seems strange. Surely time is up and the whole thing should have—

And he hears it—very quiet over the sound of footsteps and blood in his veins and breathing. A dull thudding sound. And then…nothing.

It’s quiet. Something’s not right.

His father notices at once, slowing to a stop and then whirling around to face the building, so quickly that Doctor Watson nearly runs him over. “Something’s wrong.”

“What?” Doctor Watson asks, huffing to catch his breath.

“That wasn’t a bomb. Or, at least, it wasn’t an incendiary bomb.”

Tristram can’t help it; even though the danger has passed—seemingly—he doesn’t want to let go of his father and, surprisingly, his father doesn’t seem to want to let go of him, either.

“Dad!” he hears Emily call, and, still looking over his father’s shoulder, he can see her further along the road being held at bay by a large barricade.

Doctor Watson looks around and spots her, then waves. “Stay where you are! We don’t know that it’s safe yet.”

“Is Tris okay?” she asks, and Tristram’s heart swells at the thought of her being worried about him, especially because she was hurt more than he was.

“I’m okay,” he calls back, and waves at her.

He feels his father shift him a bit in his arms, and then a large hand comes up and cups the back of his skull, pressing him gently closer. Tristram sighs in relief, still trying to catch his breath, and buries his face in his father’s neck.

His father’s arms feel warm and safe and he doesn’t want to move, not for a long time, so he doesn’t, just relaxes and tries to catch his breath and calm down. He doesn’t want Emily to see that he’s been crying, that he could barely keep it together when he thought he was going to die—that his father and her dad were, too. He doesn’t think that she’d make fun of him, but she stayed brave in the face of danger and he wants her to think that he was the same.

“Sherlock,” he hears Doctor Watson say, and he can’t see because his father turns to face Emily’s dad. “I just...you were right and I should have listened. I’m sorry.”

Tristram feels his father’s body stiffen slightly, as if in surprise or discomfort, and Tristram wants to turn around and look at Doctor Watson but he can’t because his father is running his fingers through Tristram’s hair and it’s so reassuring that he doesn’t want it to stop. So he stays still and leans into it, relishing the contact.

“Yes, well, you came to your senses quicker than most people do, at least. There might be hope for you, yet.”

Tristram blinks and ponders his father’s words and tone of voice. Coming from his father, that was almost friendly and forgiving, which are two things that his father usually isn’t. Particularly if someone hasn’t listened to him or has been stupid. Yet, at the same time, his father sounds subdued and wary; most people probably wouldn’t pick up on it, but Tristram can hear it and he’s surprised. Usually his father loves puzzles and danger.

“Is that...a compliment?” Doctor Watson sounds just as surprised as Tristram feels. He supposes it isn’t that difficult to work out why; the last time the two of them talked face to face, they’d had a massive row, after all.

“Not really. You _are_ still an idiot,” his father responds, but again, it doesn’t sound the way it usually does.

Doctor Watson surprises him again and starts laughing, though it sounds slightly hysterical and almost out of control to Tristram’s ears. “I suppose you’re right. But it takes one to know one.”

“Really, John. Aren’t we above such primary school insults? You certainly didn’t lack for any the other night--”

“Look...despite the fact that you’re arrogant, and absolutely mad, and...and not perfect, well, I think you’re brilliant, and I’d like for us to, I don’t know, patch things up a bit.”

There’s a long, tense pause as his father shifts him in his arms again, enough so that Tristram is able to look to the side and catch a glimpse of Doctor Watson’s face. He looks tired, too, but he also looks earnest and friendly and all the things that he admires about Emily: determined, serious, amused, fascinated. He hopes—he really hopes—that his father will try to be friends with Doctor Watson, because he doesn’t like arguments and the row that his father and Emily’s dad had on Wednesday night was one of the most horrible things ever.

“It’d…make things easier,” Doctor Watson continues awkwardly when his father doesn’t say anything. “For Tris and Emily, I mean.” There’s a tone in his voice—oddly serious and intense—and the atmosphere around them feels thicker. This is important, and not just for the reasons Doctor Watson said, either. If Emily and her aunts are right, this is important for other reasons, too. He just wonders if they realise that.

It’s what he wants—more than he can say—so Tristram presses his face against the side of his father’s face and clutches just a bit tighter to his shoulders, and tries to convey that somehow. His father, as always, just seems to know, because he says, “I...think I would like that.”

“Brilliant,” Doctor Watson says, and he sounds relieved, and Tristram is, too, and lets out a long breath that he didn’t even realise he’d been holding.

It almost feels as though the danger has completely passed, and he can almost pretend he wasn’t tied to a chair and facing the possibility of being blown up. All he wants, now, is to see Emily and make sure she’s okay. She should have been here for this moment, because it’s so important, and he thinks it would have meant as much to her as it means to him.

Just then, there are men running past them, their boots landing heavily on the asphalt, and Tristram lifts his head enough to see that they’re running towards the building, obviously to see what actually happened in there.

“I suppose we should move to the barrier,” Doctor Watson says, after a moment.

His father grunts noncommittally, but Tristram feels him tighten his hold and turn away from the building and towards where Emily and Uncle Mycroft are waiting.

Doctor Watson falls into step, and says, “You don’t honestly want to go in that building? After what just happened?”

Tristram feels his father clutch him tighter—just a bit—but his voice is level when he says, “Not at the moment.”

There’s a long pause, where it’s just his father and Doctor Watson walking and Tristram is still holding tight, and then Doctor Watson says quietly, “I guess I was wrong about more than one thing.”

“You were,” his father answers shortly, and Tristram can tell that this must be a dangerous area of conversation, because his father has tensed up and sounds angry.

For once, Doctor Watson doesn’t seem to take the hint, because he starts to speak again, “I’m sor—”

“Don’t.”

“I…what?”

Tristram doesn’t like the way the conversation is going because it sounds like they’re going to have another argument and they’re close to the barrier now. Emily would hear it and Tristram doesn’t think she’d want to, especially after all that’s happened.

“He doesn’t like it when people say things again,” Tristram interjects carefully.

His father carefully strokes his hair and Tristram peeks around his father’s chin to look cautiously at Doctor Watson. Emily’s dad looks confused, or possibly he’s just thinking.

“He doesn’t?” Doctor Watson asks.

Tristram shakes his head.

“Well,” Doctor Watson says, with a smile, “I won’t repeat myself, then.”

Tristram manages to smile a small smile at him, and Doctor Watson smiles back at him. “You were very brave, back there,” he says.

He doesn’t think he was, not really, but he doesn’t know how to tell Doctor Watson that. He thinks that, perhaps, his father will explain for him, but his father doesn’t say anything; he just holds onto him and both men slow seemingly unconsciously. They’re easily within fifteen feet of the barrier, and Tristram can hear Emily call, “Dad!”

“You really were,” Doctor Watson says, quietly. “I’m sure those other boys in your class would have wet themselves if they’d faced that.”

The giggle escapes him almost before he realises it, and then he’s burying his face in his father’s neck to hide it; it feels somehow inappropriate to laugh or giggle at anything, right now.

“John,” his father says, “I clearly haven’t given you enough credit as you’re actually right for once.”

Tristram pulls away to look at his father—really look at him—and he’s shocked to see that small hint of a smile that means his father is happy—or, possibly proud?—about something.

“Was I?” Doctor Watson asks, in a tone of voice that sounds fond or possibly amused. Maybe both.

“Yes,” his father answers simply, and it’s the first time that Tristram can remember that his father isn’t upset at repeating himself. It’s quite possibly the best feeling he’s ever had before.

“Dad!” Emily cries in relief, her voice so close that Tristram thinks she must have run past the barrier over to them.

“There’s my girl!” Doctor Watson exclaims and picks her up, too. Out of the corner of his eye, Tristram can see Doctor Watson twirl her around and he’s relieved to hear Emily laugh. It’s all over, and they’re both safe, and no one died or got blown up.

“How are you walking without your cane?” Emily asks suddenly, and Tristram blinks because he hadn’t even noticed. Though, to be fair, there was good reason for that.

Tristram looks over at Doctor Watson because he wants to know the answer, too. He thinks Emily’s dad looks a bit chagrined, though also proud, when he says, wryly, “Apparently I’m cured.” And then, inexplicably, he looks at his father.

Tristram pulls back so that he can see his father’s face, and he recognises that expression; his father has the look he gets when he’s just solved a case or worked out some deduction long before anyone else. “Ah, clearly your insight of a moment ago was luck.”

“You know, I can’t even be angry at you right now.”

“And because you know I’m right,” his father responds, smugly.

“You’re mad,” Doctor Watson says, but he doesn’t seem to mean it in a bad way.

“That doesn’t actually bother you,” his father answers, and Tristram glances over to see Doctor Watson roll his eyes.

“Dad, Aunt Claire…” Emily trails off, and suddenly the atmosphere shifts; what was once a relaxed and happy feeling is now growing tense and cold, sad and angry. Tristram feels his heart clench in his chest, because Emily sounds lost, like she doesn’t know what to say and it sounds so _wrong_.

“I know,” Doctor Watson murmurs, and Tristram watches as he holds Emily close, his face no longer looking relieved or content. He has that look on his face that always makes Tristram shiver, because the first time he ever saw it was when Sebastian and his friends were bullying him. It’s scares him just as much now as it did then.

“Why?” Emily asks, still sounding lost and unsure. She doesn’t even have to specify what she means, because they all know. _Why did she do it? Why did she take my mum away from me? Why did this have to happen?_ It’s one word, but it encompasses a whole world of confusion, pain, and loss.

“I don’t know,” her dad answers, sounding just as heartbroken and lost as his daughter. Tristram watches the two of them together, the way Emily looks like she’s on the verge of tears, and the way Doctor Watson’s worn features look so much older than they do when he smiles and jokes. And then they harden into that look, only now it’s _more_ that look than ever before. Tristram shivers and clutches tighter onto his father when Doctor Watson speaks, because the voice, if anything, is more frightening than the look.

“Let’s find out.”


	21. Chapter Twenty One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the last chapter. I really hope you've enjoyed the story. I have plans for a few sequels and some one-shots in this universe, so I guess you can keep an eye out for that. Anyway, thanks for reading along and for commenting--they've really meant a lot to me.

**Five Days Later**

He hadn’t wanted to go to sleep because he was afraid.

Almost every night since that horrible Friday afternoon, when he’d been kidnapped and strapped into a chair, he’d had nightmares. Some nights he remembered them, some he didn’t, but he always had them, without fail.

Tonight is no different.

It starts out as a dream, a really _nice_ dream, even though he’d been afraid to go into his room because the creaking of the floor doesn’t sound familiar anymore—it sounds like something is hiding in his cupboard, waiting for him to fall asleep before coming out to get him.

But tonight, for once, it starts out as a pleasant dream. He and Emily are at school, and it’s empty except for them. Emily is wearing a lab coat and she’s got goggles and is standing in front of a lab table that looks similar to his father’s. There are petri dishes and a really nice microscope, but there are also beakers filled with coloured potions, bubbling and frothing away, and there are all sorts of machines with switches and dials to adjust and displays to read.

It’s the most amazing lab he’s ever seen—he thinks even his father would be a little jealous, or perhaps covetous—and it’s all theirs. Emily has a clipboard and she’s messing with some switches and making notes, and Tristram is inspecting the blue box they’ve constructed, fine tuning the controls, when he turns to ask Emily something and she’s gone.

He looks around for her—he can’t see her anywhere—and it’s like clouds passing in front of the sun. Suddenly, it’s dark and cold, and the wind is picking up. It’s not safe, he needs to find Emily and they need to find somewhere to wait out the approaching storm.

But before he can move, he’s grabbed from behind and turned around roughly and there, standing ten feet tall, is Sebastian and his friends. They’re giants, looming over him, their faces twisted in vicious amusement

“Well, well, well,” he hears, and the voice is deeper than Sebastian’s, crueller, if that’s even possible. “Look who it is, little Tristram Holmes.”

He has to run, he needs to find Emily, but he’s afraid he won’t be able to get away from them. They’re so big and he’s so small, after all.

He’s shaking and crying and they’re laughing at him, asking him mockingly if he’s wet himself because he’s so scared, wondering where his father is, where Doctor Watson is, where his girlfriend is, since it’s so _obvious_ he’s helpless by himself.

And then they show him that they’ve got Emily; she’s tied up and trapped, her eyes wide in fear, but she’s not crying like he is, she’s fighting them, kicking and struggling and glaring. He wants to save her, wants to help her, but they’ve got a hold of his shirt and he can’t move. He’s forced to watch her try and save herself, watch angrily and helplessly as they toss her around as though she were no heavier than a tennis ball.

“Stop!” he tries to scream, but nothing comes out of his mouth; he’s mute and he wants to make them stop, because Emily is losing energy, her eyes are rolling in her head, and it’s so scary.

And then they throw her hard and far, so far until he can’t see her anymore, and he’s so angry and frightened that he lashes out with his legs and manages to kick the one holding him. He breaks free of their grip and he runs in the direction she was tossed, runs as hard and as fast as he can.

Suddenly, in the way of dreams, he’s no longer near his home, but all the way across London, on that small road near the building. But instead of the way he viewed the building in reality—during the afternoon, the slowly sinking sun keeping everything illuminated in yellow light—it’s dark here, night time. Shadows are everywhere, seeming to skulk just outside of his vision, shifting and changing shape every time he moves his head.

It’s quiet and spooky as he makes his way into the building and the inside is different. Instead of the large room with high ceilings, with knocked out windows and debris covering the floor, it’s close and crowded. There are large things lurking—old, rusted machinery—and walls that make the place feel cramped. His heart speeds up, his palms sweaty, because he sees a staircase—an old, rickety one that looks like it won’t support his weight. But he has to climb it, because he knows Emily is up there somewhere, that he can save her if he goes up there and finds her.

So he climbs, the stairs creaking and moaning under his feet, and the air as he moves up gets heavy—it’s hard to breathe, up here, the air thick and close, dusty with disuse. He climbs for what seems like ages, until finally he reaches the top and carefully steps onto wooden floorboards that squeak loudly in the gloom.

There are lights flickering from somewhere, and he enters a small room and sees the chair he was tied to. There is one bright light over it, and it looms large—certainly bigger than it was in real life—but the rest of the room is in shadow. He moves closer and he can see the ropes and the wires and the bomb. Even though it wasn’t a bomb in real life—or, at least, not a bomb that would blow things apart—it is here, and it’s ticking. He has to find Emily and all he can hear is tick, tick, tick—

She’s not here, but he knows _someone_ is, he can see a man hanging back in the shadows. He can’t see anything except that the man is wearing an Army uniform, and he’s immensely tall and forbidding, even in the gloom.

Tick, tick, tick—

He has to find Emily, he knows she’s here somewhere, but not in this room, he doesn’t want to be in this room with _that_ chair, with the ticking of the bomb. He has to escape, to get out and there’s more than one man, now, in the dark. There’s the man in uniform, and Gus, and Sebastian and his friends are there, too—still giant—and Emily’s aunt and hundreds of other figures, lurking in the darkness, and one other, that towers above the rest. He’s made of complete shadow and he’s _menacing_.

He’s the bogeyman.

He turns to run, he has to escape the chair and the scary people and the _tick tick tick_ of the bomb and Emily’s here somewhere he has to find her so he starts running but the wall and the door are gone it’s just an empty hole a black yawning abyss that’s cold and dark and scary he has to get out get out get out find Emily and he tries to move around the hole but it’s getting wider and he can feel the shadows pressing from behind following chasing after him getting closer where’s Emily she’s here she has to be but not in the hole _tick tick tick_ can’t breathe can’t breathe have to find where’s Emily and her dad and Father he has to get out needs help so scared so scared nowhere to go and he’s tripping flailing falling falling

 _BOOM!_

Tristram wakes up with a start, sitting up before he is even fully aware that he’s in his room and not in some horrifyingly twisted version of the abandoned factory. His heart is racing and he’s breathing so hard that he has to be careful or he’ll hyperventilate. He tries to regain his breath, but even here the shadows seem to be shifting and moving, as if they have eyes and they’re watching him.

A violin is playing from downstairs and it sounds slow and melodic; it’s his father’s thinking music and it helps calm his racing heart. But he can’t stand to stay in his room anymore, so he climbs out of bed—moving as quickly as he can and as carefully as he dares—before hurrying down the stairs and into the sitting room.

His father is there, looking out of the window; the playing stops, though, when Tristram walks into the room. His father looks concerned, perhaps, but turns away after a moment and begins playing again. This is one that Tristram recognises and is one of his favourites, Rachmaninov’s Vocalise Op. 34, though his father is playing it much slower than usual. Still, as Tristram makes some tea—chamomile and lemon—for himself and his father, he finds he likes it this way, too. It sounds a little strange without the piano accompaniment, but hauntingly beautiful as well.

The pleasant music, along with the tea and the lights and the presence of his father is comforting, familiar, almost enough to completely drive away the memories of his nightmare. Almost, but not quite. He’s glad, however, that he doesn’t remember what his dream was actually about; he has a vivid enough imagination, and he doesn’t need the things that haunt him in his sleep following him around while he’s awake.

He stares into the middle distance, thinking. It’s been five days since he was abducted and strapped to a bomb…although, it wasn’t a _real_ bomb, apparently. Uncle Mycroft said that his team determined it was some sort of aerosolized 3-Methylfentanyl, which meant nothing to Tristram, but his father had been highly intrigued by it. Doctor Watson had explained that it was apparently akin to a knockout drug, though a dangerous one.

It was clear even to Tristram that someone had wanted them unconscious, not dead; that knowledge was little comfort, however, especially at night.

His father’s response to this information had been to throw himself into researching the chemistry involved, trying to replicate it, and trying to work out who would have the means to make it and the desire to use it. But Tristram had noticed that he hadn’t been as excited at the puzzle; interested, certainly, but he hadn’t been gleeful. Tristram thinks it’s strange because usually a puzzle this complex, with so many pieces missing, would be treated with delight.

Tristram has been losing sleep and—if the bags under Emily’s eyes were any indication—he wasn’t the only one. She hadn’t complained or acted scared, so Tristram had kept his worries and fears to himself. Instead, she’d been angry and hurt, and Tristram thinks that most of her pain came from trusting someone who had then betrayed her by having her mum murdered.

Thinking of her and her pain, the absolute lost and betrayed look on her face as her aunt tried to explain, makes Tristram’s chest ache and his heart feel like it’s being squeezed unpleasantly. It’s a brand new experience for him, one he feels uncomfortable with because it makes him feel helpless and like a failure. His only friend needs help and he doesn’t know what to do—what to do or say to make it better. If he were the one hurting, Emily would know what to do and it feels selfish—or like cheating—to ask her what he should do.

He feels useless, which is an awful feeling, even though Doctor Watson had said he’d been brave and his father had agreed. His father had even seemed proud when Emily told them that he’d kept her aunt talking by deducing that she’d been responsible for her sister’s death.

The bright, shining feeling he’d had in that moment, when his father had smiled at him and kissed his temple, had faded when he’d looked at Emily and her dad’s faces. They’d been cast down, so sad and hurt and lost, that the shine of his achievement had worn right off and he was almost embarrassed that he’d been at all proud of himself for it.

He wishes none of it had ever happened—that his friend had never lost her mum and that everyone, including himself, was happy. It almost feels like no one will be happy again.

His father winds the piece down, still beautiful despite sounding strangely lost without the piano, and the last note echoes through the room for a moment before his father starts on something else, a piece Tristram recognises as one of his father’s compositions. Still slow and soothing, not his typical thinking music.

Tristram finishes his tea and he squirms around in his chair to get comfortable, and then there’s a loud knocking at the door.

His father ceases playing abruptly, the shrill squeak of the bow on strings making Tristram jerk awake and be more aware of his surroundings; without waiting for anyone to go open the door, he hears it swing open and then someone is climbing the stairs quickly, obviously rushing. Tristram glances at his father, who doesn’t look surprised, only annoyed, and then at the clock, which reads 11:18. Far too late for a client, or Doctor Watson; the most probable deduction, then, is that it’s someone with an urgent case for his father.

And that deduction is seemingly proved when the door bursts open and Detective Inspector Lestrade walks in.

“Do you have something for me?” his father says, sounding impatient.

“You could say that,” the detective inspector answers, and he glances around and starts when his eyes land on Tristram. “How are you?” he asks gently.

Tristram bites his lip and sinks down in his chair a bit. “Okay.”

“Well?” his father snaps at Detective Inspector Lestrade and Tristram is almost grateful because he doesn’t want to talk about it right now; he’d been doing so well forgetting.

“There’s been a murder,” the detective inspector answers after a moment, looking uncomfortable.

“Was it interesting?”

“You mean, do I think _you’ll_ find it interesting?”

His father waves his hand imperiously, and Detective Inspector Lestrade sighs. “You should. Someone addressed it to you specifically.”

Tristram blinks in surprise and gazes at his father, who has straightened, put his violin and bow down, and is inspecting the other man closely. “Where?” his father asks sharply.

Detective Inspector Lestrade glances over at Tristram before looking back at his father. Even Tristram can tell that he’s hesitating, that there’s something he doesn’t want to say.

“Why don’t you want to tell me?” his father demands.

The other man is hesitating, still, fidgeting and glancing back at Tristram and it’s easy for him to see that whatever it is, the detective inspector doesn’t want to say it in front of Tristram.

“It must be about the case,” his father says, studying Detective Inspector Lestrade intently.

The man clears his throat and sighs. “In Holloway,” he says, sounding defeated.

His father sucks in a sharp breath and lets it out. “ _She’s_ dead. How?”

“Murdered in her cell a few hours ago. I only got the call twenty minutes ago and thought I’d bring you the news in person.”

Tristram’s eyes widen as his father curses. “Damnit, Lestrade, we needed her alive. She never should have been remanded to Holloway. What did the message say?”

Tristram is confused for a moment—who are they talking about?—and then it hits him and he shivers. Emily’s aunt; they _have_ to be talking about Emily’s aunt. She’s dead, murdered in her cell. As if things weren’t bad enough, and now this. He feels something twist in his chest at the thought.

Detective Inspector Lestrade sighs and looks reluctant as he says, “‘Wasn’t that a fun game? Played to a draw, which is so boring. Next game will be better, I promise. XOXO.’”

His father hums, thinking, but Tristram is shivering even more now, because he couldn’t say that it was fun. Not at all. “Are there pictures?”

The detective inspector shakes his head. “Not yet, but her cell has been sealed off—”

“Send the pictures to me when you take them,” his father says. To anyone else, he probably sounds bored, but Tristram can tell that his father is tense and frustrated by the way he’s clutching at his dressing gown.

“Sherlock…” Detective Inspector Lestrade begins, and Tristram thinks that he’s surprised because his father hasn’t moved to get dressed, or demanded he be taken to the scene. The detective inspector recovers quickly, though. “All right,” he says. “I’ll put in a call—”

“No. You must go to the scene and take the pictures yourself.”

Detective Inspector Lestrade rolls his eyes, frustrated. “I can’t, but I can get Donovan—”

“No,” his father says firmly. “I can barely trust you to do it properly. You allow those incompetent morons—”

“Hey!”

“—to run amok with it and it’ll be worthless to me. Besides, it’s obvious that it was an inside job. It’s entirely possible that the most important evidence has been ruined already.”

“What about her job? You said that company she works for owns—”

“Yes. A week ago,” his father interrupts, frustrated. “By now, the whole thing will be thoroughly cleared out. I told you Infinity Financial was the link, Lestrade, but that was a week ago. Useless to me now, because it no longer exists. No, we need the evidence at that murder scene.”

“Fine,” Detective Inspector Lestrade says in resignation, clearly too tired to argue any longer. “But I’m surprised you don’t—”

“I can’t go myself. I’m busy,” his father cuts in and turns to face the window, picking up his violin and bow. Tristram knows that his father really _isn’t_ busy, but he knows why his father isn’t going and it makes him feel a little better to know that, if he has another nightmare, his father will be here.

“All right. I’ll text them to you.”

“No,” his father says, and then quickly moves away from the window to his desk and rifles through the drawers before pulling out a camera. He waves the detective inspector over and gives it to him. “Use this. Better quality than your mobile.”

“Fine. I’ll be going now,” he answers, and starts moving towards the door. “But you’d better turn up tomorrow at the Yard to get them.”

“Yes, yes,” his father says, waving him away impatiently. “Hurry up.”

And then Detective Inspector Lestrade is gone, down the stairs and out of the door, and Tristram wonders briefly if he’s going to tell Emily and her dad about it. He hopes so, because he doesn’t want to have to tell them.

His father is still looking out the window, and he’s cradling his violin between his chin and shoulder, but he’s not playing. “You should go to bed,” he says quietly.

“Father…” he starts to say, but he trails off because the fear is clutching at the inside of his throat. He doesn’t know what words to say to convince his father that there’s _something_ lurking in his room; he knows it’s ridiculous, but it scares him nonetheless.

“Go on,” his father says softly. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

He hesitates because while it’s reassuring that his father will still be there in the morning—if he should sleep that long—it’s still dark and scary in his room and he’s afraid he’ll have another nightmare.

But his father has turned away and is tuning up his violin, and Tristram knows that his father means what he says and he’ll be upset if he has to repeat himself. So he gets up and puts his mug in the kitchen, and starts towards the stairs.

“Goodnight, Father,” he says quietly, trying not to let his wariness show.

“Sleep well,” his father answers, and that’s reassuring, too.

When he climbs the stairs and sees the darkness, he turns on the light and instantly feels more at ease. He decides he’ll sleep with the light on, so he climbs into bed and lies down. He’s tired, but not tired enough to close his eyes and go to sleep, despite the soft sounds of the violin that he can hear his father playing.

And his mind, almost against his will, drifts back to Friday, but at least it doesn’t latch onto the worst bits of the afternoon. No, instead, he thinks about what had happened when Doctor Watson had determinedly made his way over to where Emily’s aunt was being handcuffed and pushed into a police vehicle.

 _”Why?” he asks, sounding distraught, upset, angry. There are so many emotions in his voice that Tristram isn’t sure it’s possible to catch them all._

 _”You wouldn’t understand, John,” she answers, her eyes red and teary, her face blotchy. Her hands are handcuffed behind her and they’re pushing her head down, guiding her into the car._

 _“You’re right,” Doctor Watson growls and the sound of it makes Tristram shiver and press against his father. “I’ll never understand, because there is no possible explanation on earth for this. But that’s not what I’m asking. Why, Claire?”_

 _“Because she always had everything, everyone always **loved** her; our parents coddled her and showed her off and gave her the best of everything, and they never did that for me!” she screams, like a volcano erupting. “She always had everything she wanted, a great job, a loving husband, a child, and what did I ever have? **Nothing.** And I was so sick of it,” she says, crying again, sitting in the police car with her legs hanging out of the open door. She looks up at him, dead in the eye. “And you were the last straw.”_

 _Doctor Watson recoils away from her, horror and disgust on his face. He clutches at Emily, holding her slightly behind him, as though he’s protecting her. “You’re sick,” he says. “How could you ever think—”_

 _“You don’t know the half of it,” she warns, her eyes going wide and she looks around at all of them. Tristram looks down because the look in her eye is downright frightening. “He’s out there and you have to protect me from him, please! He’s out there, the bogeyman, and he’ll kill me if you don’t help me.”_

 _Tristram watches as she looks pleadingly at Doctor Watson, at Emily, at the police and even Uncle Mycroft. It’s only Detective Inspector Lestrade who sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “We’ll do our best to protect you, but you have to tell us who you’re talking about.”_

 _She shakes her head. “He’s just a whisper, a man in the shadows. Nobody even knows his name. The others at work just call him the bogeyman.”_

 _His father scoffs and Tristram tries to take heart from his disdain, because the fear in her voice, the panic in her face, make him think that maybe monsters really are real._

He shivers and blinks, shaking off the memories because if he allows his mind to go there, he doesn’t have a chance of sleeping tonight.

Instead, he looks around his room, wondering what he can do that will take his mind off of everything, when his eyes light on his bookshelf and the book of fairy tales that houses his key, and _that’s_ when he remembers that he borrowed _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ what feels like ages ago. He may as well start to read it now, so he carefully retrieves the book and begins with chapter one. It’s terrifying to read about Harry’s dream, and he’s on edge, but then he reads about the Weasleys’ invitation to the Quidditch World Cup and their arrival at the Dursleys’, and he’s beginning to relax. So much so that his eyes droop the more he reads and, by the time he reaches they’ve made it to Stoatshead Hill, his eyes are almost unable to remain open. He barely makes it to their arrival at the field when his eyes close for good; he’s asleep before he can replace the book in its hiding spot.

He doesn’t dream.

*

The next morning is startlingly normal, as all the other mornings since his abduction have been. He’s still not used to it; he almost feels that some great, momentous shift should take place in his life. But it hasn’t, and he’s somewhat grateful for the sense of normality.

Perhaps the only change has been that his father has walked him to school every morning, but he’s not complaining. It’s comforting and gives him courage, to have his father there, holding his hand as they walk along.

He’s not quite awake, though, still exhausted from having his sleep interrupted and then reading late into the night.

That’s probably why he doesn’t fully comprehend it when his father asks, “What is _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_?”

Tristram almost stops walking, but he feels his stomach drop a bit and his heart beat faster.

“By the way you’re not meeting my eyes and the guilty expression on your face, it’s clear you didn’t want me to find out about it.”

He gulps and looks up at his father nervously. “I didn’t think you’d let me read it,” he says honestly.

His father frowns. “It’s a children’s fiction story.”

Tristram nods and bites his lip. “It’s really good.”

“What is it about?” his father asks awkwardly as he has so very little experience asking Tristram questions at all.

“You want to know?” he asks, holding his breath.

His father’s raised eyebrow says it all to Tristram, so he launches into an enthusiastic description of Harry, what his life is like and the adventures he’s gone on, and how brave and noble he is. Maybe his father isn’t interested, or thinks it’s silly, but it means everything that he’s asked and that he’s listening. And for the first time since everything happened, he feels okay, like things are going to get better. Maybe not now, but they will.

He finally runs out of steam as they reach school, and Tristram looks up at his father to see what he thinks.

His father looks thoughtful and moves to stand in front of Tristram.

“Did your friend tell you about these?”

Tristram shakes his head, because he did know about them before.

“Ah. I suppose she reads them, too, and that’s where you got this Wizards game from.”

“Yes, Father,” he says, and he smiles a bit.

“Well.” His father studies him for a moment before he places his hands on Tristram’s shoulders and squeezes. “You should go in before you’re late.”

“Okay,” he says and smiles again at his father before he’s released. He heads into the school’s grounds and turns around, once, to wave goodbye. His father waves back but then turns his head. Tristram finds himself slowing to see what’s caught his father’s attention.

Just then, he sees Doctor Watson and Emily walk up and he’s relieved that she’s here, even if she looks grim. The expression on her face implies that she’s heard the news about her aunt, which makes Tristram wait for her to see him and catch him up.

She spots him a second later and waves before she hugs her father tightly and comes running over to him. Before he realises what’s happening, she barrels him over in a tight hug.

He stiffens and then carefully puts his arms around her, unsure if he’s doing the right thing, but he supposes he is because she tightens her arms and buries her face in his neck. It’s strange, but it doesn’t feel bad, so he awkwardly holds her, hoping that—if nothing else—he’s doing a decent job comforting her. She clearly needs it.

He’s just beginning to wonder if he’s hugged her long enough and how much time they have until the bell rings when he spots Sebastian and his friends smirking over at them, making kissy faces.

He’s not even scared, just angry and annoyed. He glares at them, imitating his father’s most disdainful and forbidding look, and he’s surprised when Sebastian blinks and takes a step back. Tristram narrows his eyes and mentally promises horrible things will happen to them if they even think about coming over or doing anything to upset Emily. It seems to work because they Sebastian sends him a wary look and then says something to his friends that makes them follow him towards the classrooms.

His heart lifts a bit at that and he’s just about to say something about it to Emily when she pulls away and he gets a good look at her face. It’s dry, but her eyes are red and shiny, as though she almost cried but didn’t.

“Are you okay?” he asks, because it’s the sort of thing that he feels he should, even if he can tell she’s not.

Sure enough, she shakes her head and sighs. “My dad said it’ll get better. I hope it hurries up.”

“It will,” he says firmly.

“When?” she asks uncertainly.

He bites his lip. “I don’t know,” he answers. “But it will.” It has to, he thinks, but doesn’t say that out loud.

She smiles at him—a small one, but genuine—and he sees her relax a fraction, as if he’s managed to reassure her and that makes him so, so glad.

“Come on,” he says. “If we don’t hurry, we’ll be late.”

“Okay,” she says and she’s already striding away, just as confident as ever, and that’s normal and right and the way it should be. And he follows behind, just a step, happy to follow her lead.

It’s the first sign, maybe the best sign, that he’s right and Doctor Watson’s right, too. It’ll get better. It will.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cracks in the In-Between Places](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155955) by [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss)




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